Hysteria
by Shironette
Summary: As spring sets in, John's health is threatening to slip, but the return of an old friend means the return to an old battlefield. Post Reichenbach / Dark themes / Mental illness / Established Johnlock / Slash / Afghanistan / Updates Thursdays and Sundays
1. Chapter 1

Thank you for attempting this little tale of mine.

Before beginning, warnings are due. If you are triggered by anxiety, depression, rape, abuse, or suicide, be very careful with this fic. Dark themes are laced tightly throughout, increasing in intensity as the plot progresses. You have been warned.

Hysteria is set directly after another fic I recently published, titled Asphyxia. Reading Asphyxia is not necessary to understand Hysteria (the plotlines are not dependent on each other), but if you're interested in reading more about the relationship between Sherlock and John or about John's current mental situation, Asphyxia might just fit your fancy.

That being said, please enjoy Hysteria.

* * *

You bolted down the alleyway, your coat flashing out behind your ankles as I struggled to keep up. Adrenaline blurred everything around us. The man was getting away; we both knew it. He had slipped from Lestrade's web, but you weren't about to let him get away. Not this time. Not after going through so much to smoke him out. This time, we would get him. We picked up pace, flying low between the tall brick buildings, our minds narrowed into one coherent goal.

He dashed out onto the sidewalk of Regent's Street, blowing through a pack of tourists and shouting until the rest of the crowd parted for him. You zoomed in, gliding through the path he opened, while I shouted sorry at the top of my lungs, my arms swinging violent back and forth to try to keep your speed.

"Come on, John, we're going to lose him!" You bellowed.

"I'm not built for this, I'm a bloody doctor!" I shouted back.

Two police cars screeched around the corner, and the man kicked left into another alley, racing deeper and deeper into the belly of London as we tailed him. You were running and deducing and trying to figure his course, but he always seemed to be ten feet ahead of us. Your teeth were gritted with intensity. Sweat poured off your forehead, sticking your curls to your forehead.

We saw our chance when the man hesitated. It was a split second, just a fraction of a step, but his confusion gave you an extra bound, and he couldn't make up the distance. You jabbed at his ribcage and pushed him off to the side, where he fell into the mouth of an adjoining path, and the man quickly bolted again, leaving you and I panting for breath at the crossway.

"What good did _that_ do?!" I shouted.

"Fear, John!" You sucked in a breath and started off again. I followed with a half-muttered, half-spat curse.

The yellow-gold streetlamps began to fade as we went deeper, replaced by the faint light of the moon and the scampering of little paws on pavement. The dark shadows swallowed you and I up with the man himself. But we kept running, blind as bats, following the footsteps of the man ahead of us. By the time our eyes had adjusted, we had nearly reached the end, and I understood why you had pushed him down this way in the first place.

A wall. A huge brick wall, black with night, loomed over us, blocking out the moon. There was nowhere else left to go. We came to a stop, all three of us gasping for breath, but there was a grin on your face, standing just outside the curtain of darkness.

"Caught you," You hissed.

You walked forward to seize the man while I squatted over to balance myself. The man was just as exhausted as we were, I was sure, and it wasn't hard for you to get a grip on him. You had him with his face on the ground in front of me before I had enough air to talk.

"Now what?" I asked, squinting my eyes. "Where the hell are we?"

"Just off Caledonian Road, I think," You answered, looking around. "Oh."

"Oh, what?"

"This was a bad idea."

I heard several distinctive thumps, and then you shouted. I jumped and turned just as two bodies descended on you. I rushed over, adrenaline kicking in again, and drove my fists into one man's temple while his friend bashed his knee into your skull. The man we had been chasing scrambled up to his feet and pushed me to the ground, my head hitting hard cement with a force that blew sparks in all directions.

By then, they were already off and running. I resurfaced and pulled myself onto my knees, wobbling a bit, shaking the fog from my head and bracing myself for another chase. I struggled to my feet. "Sherlock, Sherl, c'mon, let's go. Let's just go. They can't-"

You made an awful moaning noise, and my blood went cold. I turned back, my eyes searching the darkness for you. There was the lip of your coat, the only part of you outside the shadows. The rest was buried in the dark - you, sprawled on your side, both hands clutched to your stomach and shaking with shock.

"Oh, Jesus." I fell to your side, putting one hand on your shoulder and the other on your forehead. "Sherlock! What happened?!"

"John-" You gasped, choking on your words. "T-The- The kn-n-"

"Knife? What knife? Their knife?" I put my hands on your hands, and to my horror, pulled them away sticky with hot, red blood. "Oh, oh my god, Sherlock."

"Lestrade, John-" You steadied yourself, breathing in sharply through your nose, only exhaling to speak. "Call Lestrade. Lestrade."

I fumbled for my phone, my heart pounding and head spinning, my fingers slipping across the keys.

* * *

The beginning was the worst. I let the nurses know right away that there was no way in bloody hell I would last two minutes in the waiting room and that I would wait outside the operating room until there was news. Molly heard the story and came upstairs from the mortuary to keep me company. Mrs. Hudson came, too, but she was already teary-eyed by the time she got there, and it didn't help her much seeing me. Molly took her down to the cafeteria, but it had been almost an hour, and there was still no news from the surgeon.

I shouldn't have been panicking, but I was panicking. There was so much blood, my arms were covered with it. What if there were complications? What if you bled to death? What if you were already dead? My hands trembled, and horrible pain throbbed in my leg. I knew I was in bad shape, but there was nothing I could think about except you. I felt sobs starting to build up in my chest. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stand it. I needed to be in there with you, I needed to see you, I needed to know you were going to be fine.

Greg had stayed at the crime scene to finish the bust, but he came up around eleven, and there I was, still sitting outside the operating room. He burst through the stairwell, a bit out of breath. "John," He huffed, "Any news?"

I shook my head.

He cursed and moved over to me. At first, I thought he was going to pull me up and send me away. But he just sat down beside me and put his hand on my shoulder, letting his eyes move over me carefully and closely.

"Are you doing alright? How are you feeling?"

"Bit shitty," I answered, keeping my hands clutched in my lap to keep them from shaking.

"You look it too. You need some water? Xanax? Are you panicking?"

"No." I shook my head, letting it fall toward my lap. "I just want the damn doctor to tell me what's going on."

Greg glanced toward the door. "How long has it been since he's been in there?"

"Fourty-five minutes, I think."

"Damn. Still nothing?"

"Nothing at all."

"Well, I'm sure they're doing their jobs."

"They had damn well be doing their jobs," I snapped back. "I'll break a few necks if they aren't."

He chuckled, but I was completely serious. I was lightheaded I was so angry. Angry at the doctors, angry at the situation, angry at you, but most of all, anxious. Did you need me? Were you hurting? I put my head in my hands, leaning forward onto my knees and pressing my palms against my eyes. Greg ran his hand reassuringly along my back. "It'll all be fine, John. Just wait."

Ugh, this whole thing was so stupid. I was a bloody doctor, I should've been there beside you the whole time. Instead I was sitting outside, reeling from the worry and nearly caving in on myself. I wasn't a teenage girl, I shouldn't have been feeling as horrible as I felt. I was an adult, I was mature and I could control my own emotions. Except, of course, when you weren't with me.

I cursed at myself. I thought I had been improving, too. I hadn't had a panic attack in almost two weeks. My limp was almost gone and I barely even noticed the tremor anymore. All that progress, out the window. I should've known better than to go out to crime scenes again. It wasn't easy for me, not anymore. Since I had moved back in with you, nothing had been easy. There was too much stress, too much damage, and it took its toll. This was the result.

Thankfully, within the next twenty minutes or so, a nurse pushed through the double-doors, and we bounded up to meet her. She seemed a bit surprised, but smiled at the two of us, still drying off her hands from the scrub. "Oh, were you two here for Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, we are." Greg said answered.

"His surgery went well, he's in recovery right now. They're preparing him for a room."

"Recovery?" I collapsed back in my chair. "Jesus Christ. Recovery."

"What happened in there?" Lestrade demanded. "It's been an hour and a half!"

"Well, due the angle and depth of the wound, the blade did not puncture the lung or stomach, but did damage the spleen quite badly. It caused the spleen to rupture, and the surgeon found it necessary to remove it."

"A splenectomy? You need consent for that!" I exclaimed.

"We had consent, sir." The nurse smiled.

"Consent from whom? Sherlock couldn't have possibly been awake."

"His brother, Mycroft Holmes, is his registered consentee. When the surgeon found the damage, Mr. Holmes was promptly called, and gave consent to the surgery."

"Dammit, why didn't he phone me?" I growled, pulling out my mobile.

"Can we see him?" Greg asked. "Sherlock, I mean."

"Our typical visiting hours have already past, sir."

"It's important that we see him, ma'am."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I can-"

"Look." Greg stepped closer to her. "I'm Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade from the Scotland Yard. This is Dr. John Watson. Heard of him? In there's his fiancé, the big Internet detective Sherlock Holmes. Now, this man's been through way too much in the last year for you to keep him waiting out in the hall away from his partner. So unless you want me to get out my shiny badge and make a scene, you can show us where he'll be."

The nurse looked at us with big eyes, then led us down the hall.

* * *

You were unconscious for several hours afterward, but just being within arm's reach of you helped me calm down. I brushed my hand across yours, letting the soft beep of your monitors reassure me. Molly and Mrs. Hudson came in for a little while, but left around midnight in favor of sleep.

Lestrade promised he'd stay, but he was asleep in the corner of the room most of the time anyway. He did his best to try to stay awake for me, but I knew he was exhausted. Hell, _I_ was exhausted. We had a long weekend weeding out suspects and preparing for this bust, and now we were going most the night without sleep. I let him know that he could go home whenever he liked, but he insisted that he'd stick around, at least until Mycroft could get there to keep an eye on us.

In a way, I was a bit relieved. I didn't like being alone, and although I knew I had you, you couldn't really do much in an emergency if you were unconscious. I twisted a few strands of your curly hair around my fingers. Greg was an excellent comfort, but I still missed having you, and my chest ached to see you hooked up to the machines. You would wake up soon, I kept reminding myself. But I still missed you.

Both of us ended up drifting off, him slumped in his chair, and I bent over your bed. As six o'clock approached, Greg woke up, stretched a little, and decided to get coffee for the both of us. The smell of it stirred me awake, and while I stretched my back, he sipped at it, his back to the window.

"Mycroft said he should be in soon," He mentioned.

"He texts you?" I asked, rotating my arm.

"Just when it has to do with his brother." He answered. "He doesn't text you?"

"Never. If he wants to talk to me, he kidnaps me."

Greg chuckled. "Sounds like him."

"Why is it taking him so long to get here?" I grumbled, sitting down. "You said he was on his way hours ago."

"He's been real busy lately. I think there's been some foreign stuff going on."

"So you do text him."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

As we spoke, the door opened wide, and the familliar tap of an umbrella against the tile floor made us both glance up. Mycroft stood in the door, his expression even more cross than usual, his coat bent over his arm. He walked in without saying a word, standing at the foot of your bed but not bothering to as much as glance at you. Instead, he stared Greg and I down. I set my coffee on the table, but Greg kept sipping, as if he was avoiding something.

"Would you please inform me as to _why_ I was called from an important foreign dignitary meeting to oversee my brother's splenectomy?" Mycroft growled.

"Your brother was stabbed," Greg answered.

"The wound was not mortal. I was in a meeting." His flashing eyes fell on Greg, as did mine.

He kept the coffee cup close to his lips. "It was important."

"Important enough to risk the security of Great Britain."

"Important enough for you to _care_. It was a major surgery."

"You told me it was urgent."

"It _was_ urgent."

"_You_ thought it was urgent."

"It was urgent when I phoned you."

"Do we need to have another discussion on the meaning of _urgency_?" Mycroft snapped.

Greg turned to grin at Mycroft. "Mr. Holmes, I've gotten eight hours of sleep in a seventy-two hour period. I would _love_ to discuss urgency with you."

The two of them exchanged a long look, and I didn't feel the pressing need to get involved, so I picked up my coffee and started to drink. After a moment Mycroft broke the stare and strode toward the door, opening it wide and motioning with his umbrella for Greg to follow him. He gave me a quick glance. "If you'd excuse us, John."

Lestrade stood up passed him without so much of a nod. I could physically see the tension wavering between them. Mycroft closed the door behind him with the handle of the umbrella, and the room was quiet again. I decided right then and there that if I heard shouting from the hall, I would climb under your bed and pray until it passed. I had never seen anyone argue with Mycroft except for you, and he typically took your arguing as a joke. I had no idea what he was capable of fighting with Scotland Yard.

You stirred within the next few minutes. It stared slowly, with your head bobbing back and forth across your pillow. As you resurfaced you groaned, reaching down to pull at the cords in your arms. "Dammit," You croaked. "Stop beeping already, we get the point."

I walked over with my coffee and took a seat to the right of you, a little smile on my face. "About time you woke up."

You looked at me, your eyes still glazed with sleep, but you were still alert enough to deduce me. "How long?"

"You've been here all night."

"No, I mean how long has Mycroft been in the hall with Geoffery."

"I don't know any Geoffery, but he's been out with Greg ten minutes or so."

"You're a bit smart-ass this morning, aren't you."

I smiled and leaned forward, putting my hand in your hair. "I'm just glad you're alright."

Your eyes met mine. Gently I drew forward, pressing my lips against yours, letting our breath mingle and twist. You murmured, and I kissed your forehead. Something about the way you felt against my mouth made me a little less tired, a little less anxious, a little less nervous. You were still here. I wanted to pull you close, but I knew you still had wounds and cords and little beeping machines hooked up to you, so I left it at kissing.

"You taste like coffee," You remarked, curling your nose. I laughed and sat back.

Mycroft and Lestrade decided to grace us again, neither of them seeming quite happy enough to have won the argument, and neither quite calm enough to ask about how the argument went. Greg, however, was the first to greet you. "Ey, look who's finally back in the land of the living."

"It's not too great a place to be, actually," You quipped. Greg gave you a funny look.

"How does it feel with one less organ, little brother?" Mycroft asked, standing by your feet.

"How does it feel with another pound on your waistline?"

He furrowed his brow.

"That's about right." You grumbled. "How long do I have to stay in this bloody hospital."

"Well, you've only been awake forty seconds," I said.

"The average hospital stay for a post-splenectomy is two-to-four days," Mycroft stated. "And somehow I'm not feeling much like releasing you from hospital policy this time."

"Did I say pound? I meant half a pound."

"You'll have to do better than that."

"And major surgery means that you're going to be off the field for a good long time, too." Greg added. "Lots of rest, lots of staying home. No more running after criminals for a while."

"What?!" You pushed yourself forward to get a better look at Greg. "I can't just abandon the cases now. We were so close to an arrest. We still have to find Maratina and Karzai and-"

He put his hand in the air. "You're not permitted on any more of my crime scenes until you're fully healed."

"But-"

"Final answer, Sherlock, you're not changing my mind. I can hold up the defenses for a few weeks until you get well enough to come back. Don't worry about it." He patted him on the shoulder. "Take some time off."

"I'll go crazy stuck in the flat." You insisted. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Invest in a goldfish." Mycroft turned on his heel toward the door. "Good morning, Sherlock."

He walked out before another word could be said, closing the door behind him. Greg and I exchanged a look, then he sighed and fell back into his chair, letting his head rest against the wall. "I have to say, Sherlock, I am _exhausted_."

"You both look exhausted." Your eyes settled on me.

"John's been quite the trooper," Greg continued, his eyes closed. "Been here all night waiting for you. Didn't panic once."

"That's good." You reached through the bed to tease my fingers. "And what about you, Lestrade?"

He laughed. "I might've panicked a few times. But I knew you'd be fine. You're not one to be taken down by a knife wound."

You nodded, still watching me with a rare feather of affection. Probably because of the drugs, but I would take what I could get. Greg popped one eye open, noticed us, and chuckled.

"I guess I'll leave you two kids alone, then." He stood up to pat me on the back, then stretched out his shoulders and began a slow march toward the door. "Give me a call, John, if you need me to get you anything. Don't get into trouble while I'm gone, Sherlock."

"I'm fairly certain that won't be possible," You said.

"Oh, it's always possible with you two." He smiled at us. "Good morning."

He shut the door softly, and you turned back to me. "Come up here."

You gently moved yourself over to one side of your cot, motioning for me to climb up and join you. I paued a moment, then kicked off my shoes and complied, careful not to upset the bed too much. You curled your arm around my back and nestled my head against your shoulder, letting your lips gently graze my forehead. My fear steadily melted away as your heart pittered in my ear, your chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, holding me close to you.

"You really do need to be more careful," I said.

You shrugged, kissed my ear, and everything around us was still.

* * *

I really love getting feedback from my readers, and it helps me improve both in writing and in content. Leave me a review if you see something that I should work on or need to correct, or if you just enjoyed the story. I read all my reviews, and it's my number one goal to become a better writer, so I'll take any critique you can give me. I'll even remind you with sappy song lyrics from time to time.

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	2. Chapter 2

The spring had only recently finished melting the snow off the branches of Hyde Park. Our furious winter finally gave in, its stormy clouds pushed back by the warm April winds as grass began to poke up through the dirt. I had always loved the weather around this time of year, looking forward to the first time I can leave my coat home and roll up my jumper sleeves. Spring was a breath of fresh air, and I drank it in.

You lasted a whole seven hours in the hospital before insisting to be released. You seemed to be recovering fine, there were no complications and all the charts were normal. You were just bored of sitting around and preferred to at least sit around somewhere where you could entertain yourself. The hospital staff bent to your loud demands, but requested that you would at the minimum put up with riding in your wheelchair until we reached the door. You agreed, begrudgingly tucking your coat underneath you and holding your head up high.

Once we reached the door, you stood. I could tell that it hurt you to walk, but you refused any kind of crutch for the sake of your own pride. You groped slowly out the door while I hailed a cab, letting you enjoy your little moment of freedom.

"This is going to be a long four-to-six weeks." You grumbled, stepping out onto the sidewalk. The paper stand outside the door caught your eye, and you waddled over to a to strip off a copy, turning it over in your hand. "John, did you see this?"

A cab had just pulled to the curb, and I opened the door for you only to see that you were still several paces away. I jogged over. "It's time to go, Sherlock."

You started walking, the paper still in-hand, and the stand-owned shouted at you. "Hey, he needs to pay for that." He said, narrowing his eyes at us.

"Oh, sorry. I'll just." I glanced at you and pulled out a bill. "C'mon, Sherlock, the cab isn't going to wait."

"There's no rush, John." You murmured, flipping through the news. "Four-to-six weeks."

I nudged you toward the car and let you get in before I ran to my own side. You took your time reaching for the buckle, and the cab driver just watched you out of his mirrors. I didn't want to complain, but I was running on a ridiculous lack of sleep and I wanted to get home as soon as possible, both for the sake of my own sanity and for your health, too. I glanced over to the paper you had grabbed. "As soon as we get home, you're going to bed," I stated, setting in my chair. "Since when do you read the news, anyway."

"Look at the cover." You put it in my lap. " '_Entrepreneur Pleads Guilty: The True Face of the Lecuyér Industry_'."

"Lecuyér?" I picked it up. "Seems like we closed that case ages ago."

"Four months. The courts are getting slow." You leaned to look over my shoulder. "Did he get life?"

"He got life."

"At least they're still somewhat reliable."

"I'm just glad that case is closed." I sighed. "Let's keep it closed."

"Agreed." You folded up the paper and tucked it into the pocket of your coat. "Let's select a different topic, then, shall we?"

I nodded. I was tired and a bit distracted by the street, so I didn't catch your meaning right away. But, after a brief moment of silence, I turned to glance at you, and upon seeing the look in your eye I realized exactly what you were alluding to, and did not like it.

I grunted. "We've already talked enough about the wedding, alright? None of your arguments are going to phase me."

"If you'd just tell me why you insist on putting it off, I wouldn't have to keep arguing."

"You'll always keep arguing."

"But I wouldn't _have_ to."

"I already explained it to you, Sherlock." I frowned. "I don't want to move too quickly."

"Sounds like a perfectly good excuse for having cold feet."

"I _don't_ have cold feet."

"I'm a detective. I know things. You have cold feet."

"I don't have cold feet!" I rubbed my temple. "God, Sherlock, I swear. I told you - I just want more time. We didn't even date before we got engaged, and that's a big jump by itself. I want to make sure the relationship will stand against time before we make such a huge commitment. A wedding isn't just a 'coming out' party. It changes everything."

"No it doesn't."

I made a face at you.

"It doesn't change anything that our engagement hasn't already changed."

"You really are a twat, you know that?"

You sighed through your nose. "I don't want to wait, John."

I paused, pursing my lips. "I know you don't. In all honesty, I don't want to wait, either. But think about who we are. We're not just two people, we're adrenaline junkies who get into too many situations way too fast. I don't want this to be just another whirlwind of poor choices and clever deductions that gets our blood pumping for a while and then becomes nothing but a blog post. I want this to last. So can you please stop being a five-year-old and behave like an adult."

That shut you up for a little while. You quieted, thinking, the gears turning in your head while the cab buzzed along. Maybe I had finally gotten though to you. I mean, I didn't say anything I hadn't said before, but maybe it was because I threw "clever" in there this time. You always had a soft spot for compliments.

We reached the curb of 221B and, just to spite me, you murmured "Still sounds like cold feet." before kicking your way onto the sidewalk.

"You are _actually_ five." I growled, and paid the cabbie.

* * *

As I opened the door to our flat, I was hit square in the face with a wave of atrocity. The smell of flesh nearly made me double over, it was so strong. The headache was immediate. "_Sherlock_."

You came up the stairs after me, still waddling slowly along, plugging your nose with a little smile. "John."

"What the _hell_ is that."

"I didn't intend for the fingers to sit out in the sun."

"Fantastic."

I covered my nose with my sleeve and stumbled into the kitchen. You moved into the sitting room and took a seat in your armchair, consciously avoiding the desk, where a pile of human fingers sat directly in the light, yellow and brown with bacteria. I nearly threw up trying to sweep them into the trashcan.

"You know, you really should be the one cleaning this up." I grumbled.

You pointed to your stomach. "I've just had major surgery."

"You were just complaining because Lestrade wouldn't take you to his crime scene."

"_Major surgery_."

I sighed and tied off the trash bag, coating it in a thick layer of air-freshener. "You're useless, you know that?"

You nodded, then glanced around. "Where's the dog?"

"Mrs. Hudson probably took him downstairs. I'll find him." I lifted the trash bag from the can (after wheezing off the sheer volume of the smell) and made my way downstairs.

Sure enough, as I crossed the foyer I could hear Gladstone's little yowl coming from behind Mrs. Hudson's door. His little paws thumped their way up to meet me, his eyes bright and mouth open. I warned him about the smell, but he sniffed the bag anyway and jumped back whimpering. Mrs. Hudson giggled at him.

"The poor pup's been missing you boys all morning," She said, smiling. Her expression changed, however, when she caught a whiff of the bag. "Oh, my, what is that?"

"Sherlock's latest 'experiment'." I sighed. "Don't go up to the flat, it's even worse. C'mon, boy."

I pushed the door open, and Gladstone darted out between my legs. I was only letting the trash out, but he and I were so accustomed to going out together that I hardly noticed. He was good company, and it was good to know that he would always be more suspicious of strangers than I was.

The poor thing probably needed a walk, too. But, looking at the sky, it didn't seem like much of an option. Dark stormclouds were rolling in, bringing a chill along with them. The air was charged, as if holding its breath in anticipation of the storm. It was a shame; it seemed so nice just a little while ago. Keeping my eyes on the front, I knelt down to scratch Gladstone's ears. "Look at that, boy." I nodded to the sky. "Looks like something coming, doesn't it? Awful."

He yowled, licking my face. I patted him and ushered him back inside.

Now that the upstairs door was hanging open, the stink had begun to come down the stairs. I grumbled going up, favouring my leg a bit where it was necessary, and as I ascended I plugged up my nose with my palm. The air-freshener was in the kitchen, so I bypassed the sitting room, but as I went in I found you, bent over and moving large stacks of books from the shelves. That wouldn't do.

"Hey, Mr. Major Surgery, go lay down." I scolded, taking the books from your arm.

"I was looking for my-" You almost lost your balance as you straightened. "-timekeeper. I have to keep track of-"

"No experiments until you're healed. Bedroom or sitting room?"

You huffed and turned toward the sitting room while I put your books on the table. I went to grab the air-freshener from beneath the sink, but I realized that it was still secured with a lock, and that the key to that lock was on the top of the bookshelf, a place only you could reach. I grumbled and scowled at the bookshelf before dragging a chair across the room.

"Do we need to lay down some rules of engagement?" I asked, climbing up.

"I don't think that's necessary," You replied.

"Your doctor gave me specific instructions when he let me take you home. You'll take your medicine three times a day, you'll eat all your meals, and you'll rest as long as is needed. I can pull some pillows from the bedroom upstairs and let you stay on the sofa, but you'll need to be horizontal. It's not good for you to be upright until all the tissue has healed."

"And how long will that take?"

"At least a few days."

You rolled your eyes. "Lestrade needs me on his cases, he's got leads."

"Lestrade can call. You're not allowed on any crime scene for at least a week."

"Purgatory."

"Should've thought about that before you decided to run after those criminals unarmed."

"You were there too, John, you enabled me. And why weren't _you_ hurt?"

"I did, I got cracked over the head."

"You didn't lose any organs. At least, not that I heard about."

"Not that I heard about, either."

I unlocked the cabinet and pulled out the freshener, spraying it in a thick cloud all over the kitchen and into the sitting room. You covered your face with your scarf and hacked, squeezing your eyes closed against the spray. I made sure to get all around our desks and into the sofa, which I was sure would stink for ages anyway. The wood paneling in the fireplace was probably bad, too.

"_Jesus_, John, are you trying to suffocate us?" You coughed.

"It was your fault, leaving those fingers out." I set the can down and looked over the fireplace. "Is it safe to burn the smell out?"

"Not _now_," You said. "Prop open the windows."

I shot you a glare and bent around the desk, unlocking and pulling the windows open. "We won't be able to leave them for long, I think there's a storm coming in."

"That might help. Open the back too, so there's airflow."

"Yes, sir."

You shook your head, then laid it back against your chair. I walked back into the kitchen, closing the door to the sink as I passed and pulling the curtains away from the window. It was even darker out there, over the roofs of the neighboring houses. I unlocked the window, being sure to press the security key as I slid it upward. The wind blew into the kitchen, carrying with it the sharp smell of rain that was very much appreciated rather than the combination of air-freshened and decomposing hands.

Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs and stepped into the living room, her face contorted with the smell. "Boys- Ooh, John, you weren't kidding about the smell."

"I wasn't." I came back in.

"The air freshener made it worse," You complained.

"Your damn _fingers_ made it worse," I argued.

"Boys, there's someone here for you, downstairs," Mrs. Hudson continued.

"It isn't exactly a great time," I said, sitting down to rub my thigh. "Tell them to come back a different day, or maybe shoot us an e-mail. We're not taking clients right now."

"Well, this boy, he says he knows you."

"Everyone knows us." You said.

"No, not _both_ of you, he said he knows John."

I raised an eyebrow. "What's his name?"

She tapped her lip and stammered while a shadow followed her onto the landing. She didn't realize he had followed her, but he stood within the doorway with his eyes still a bit wide, fingers drumming nervously. Something struck me immediately - his bronze skin, dark hair, hazel-brown eyes, the little quirk in his brow and the X-shaped scar at the bottom of his jaw. His eyes met mine and hung on tight, boring deep and dripping memories.

"Dr. Watson?" He asked.

* * *

Down on the West Coast, they've got a saying: "If you're not reviewing, then you're not playing."

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	3. Chapter 3

So, I read a book about war surgeons in preparation for writing this fic so that I could kind-of understand how everything worked in Afghanistan, but it was an American author, so if things go down differently in English camps I obviously have no idea. There isn't too much detail so I think I'm safe, but if anyone spots something that's inaccurate, let me know.

* * *

As the boy pushed past Mrs. Hudson, you started to stand. He was unfamiliar to you, a stranger, and moving toward me fast. But my heart went light when he met my eyes. I recognized him immediately and moved to meet him too. "Jahandar?" I asked, almost laughing. "Jahandar Dali, is that you?"

"It is, Dr. Watson," He said, relief flooding him. "It's very good to see you."

I offered my hand to him, and he shook it firmly. You settled back in your chair, still confused. "You're acquainted?"

"We are, yes." I turned to you, unable to hide my smile. "Sherlock, this is Jahandar. Or, Jandi. Can I still call you Jandi?"

"Of course," He nodded.

"Then, Jandi, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"A pleasure." You said.

Jandi nodded, glancing between you and I. "I don't mean to intrude in your home, Dr. Watson, I apologize."

"Oh, no, it's perfectly fine, you're not intruding at all." I offered him the sofa. "Sit down?"

He thanked me and took a seat, sitting down at the very edge of the couch and folding his hands in his lap. You watched him quizzatively, no doubt deducing as much about him as you could while I started a kettle of tea in the kitchen. Jandi was quiet, just watching and surveying the room, purposefully avoiding eye-contact with you. It was no surprise you intimidated you, although I wished you would've given him a break.

I brought in tea for you and Jandi and then settled down on the sofa with my own. "What are you doing in London, Jandi?" I asked, stirring. "Last I heard you were living in Wales with Macie Lowdry."

"Yes, sir." His Pashto-English accent put a little smile on my face. "We share a flat in Brecon, now."

"Oh, alright, good, very good. How is she, Macie?"

He hesitated. "Well, that's why I'm here, sir."

I set my cup in my lap. "What happened?"

Jandi looked at me a moment, then let his eyes shift over to where you were sitting.

"Am I making you nervous?" You asked.

"I don't mean to be rude, sir, but yes. I'm particular with people."

"I know you are." You replied.

"Sherlock, please." I glanced back at you. "Would you let us talk?"

You made a face. "I'm not a child, John. Just because the two of you have Afghanistan in common doesn't mean that I'm not able to comprehend any of your conversation, or any kind of danger Macie might have-"

"You told him?" Jandi said, eyes going wide. "What did you tell him about me?"

"I didn't tell him anything." I sighed. "He just, well, does that."

"She told me to be careful." He continued, shakily. "Macie is in danger, and so am I."

"Calm down, Jandi." I set my hand reassuringly on his shoulder. He took a deep breath, and I lowered my head closer to his. "Look. Sherlock's a detective. If you're in trouble, if Macie is in trouble, there isn't anyone better to hear. Believe me. He can help."

He glanced up at you again, then nodded. I could tell he still wasn't too interested in the idea of sharing his story with someone he wasn't close to, but it wasn't much of a choice, for either of us. You were intrigued, and there wasn't much we could do to get you to sod off without physically dragging you. Jandi shifted in his chair, and you took a sip of your tea.

"That is why you came here, isn't it?" You asked. "You knew I was a detective."

"Yes, sir, I did. But that isn't why I came." He scratched at his arms. "Macie told me very clear not to go to the police, not to go to the government or the law enforcement at all. Otherwise something awful might happen, to her, to me, or to anyone."

I sat back. "Alright, I'm confused. _Macie_ told you not to talk to the police?"

"Yes, sir. You see, Macie just got back from Afghanistan a few weeks ago. She volunteers with the Red Cross there and often serves for terms of several months at a time. I go with her, we stay for a while with other it goes well - we don't run into violent sorts quite as often, the wounds aren't as serious. But it was different this time. The people were angry, there were lots of shots and violent wounds. And the people were hungry. You know, when you go into villages, if the people are hungry, there's trouble there.

"Macie met a man there, his name was Tamim. He had a shot wound through his shoulder, she stitched it up for him. But he recognized her, from when she used to go to his town when he was a little boy. That was during the war, when she was stationed at Ristol, with you."

"Yes, I remember that. When she used to go into Khales."

"He didn't try to hurt her, but after meeting him she was very scared. I asked why, but she couldn't answer. She just said that his father was a warrior, a part of the drug cartel network. She wanted to come off duty right away. That's not like her, running away. She usually begs to stay an extra week, an extra month. But she got off duty right on time, she was packed days before leaving. She went home to Wales and shut herself in, she hardly left her room even for food. It wasn't like her at all.

"She started planning, started preparing. She gave me instructions for what to do if she went missing. She knew she was in danger, but instead of trying to protect herself, she worked hard to protect me. She gave me contacts, gave me numbers and addresses, for me to use. She told me not to go to the police or to the government, that they couldn't help. She told me that if anything happens that I should find her Afghanistan friends."

"So you came to me?" I asked.

"Not first. Macie made it very clear, she said, 'Jandi, if everything happens to you, I want you to leave this house, and I want you to find James Sholto. Find him, and tell him what's happened. He'll help you' "

"_Major_ James Sholto?" I rolled the name on my tongue. "Why him?"

"She didn't tell me. She just said find him." Jandi set his still-full cup of tea on the side-table and wrung his wrists. "It was the night before she left. The next morning, I woke and she was gone. All her bedroom windows were open, and her door was ajar. There was nothing stolen and nothing broken. She had simply vanished. That was three days ago"

"There was no note, no anything?"

"Nothing. The house was silent. I was so scared, I ran into town and took the bus to Cardiff. There I tried to phone the major, but the number that Macie had left in the book she gave me was disconnected, and there was no house address. I didn't know what else to do. I came to London on the trains, and I slept on the steps of the station the first night. I wanted to see Colonel Franklin, but there were too many police, and I was afraid. Then, I saw your name in the papers, and I remembered you were in London."

"The papers?"

"He must've seen a paper about a past case," You interjected.

"Your address was in the book." He finished. "I came to you as fast as I could, although, I got lost a few times."

"That's quite a story, Jandi." I remarked. "Could I see Macie's book?"

Jandi nodded and reached for his pack. The thing looked almost half-empty, but as he unzipped the top, I could see why. It was filled with all kinds of papers, notepads, books, and maps. He dumped its contents on the sofa between us, causing a few pages to fall on the floor. I picked them up; bank statements. Legal documents. Macie's credit cards and health insurance and social security pamphlets. Among them were scattered notes in Macie's handwriting. Instructions, wills, promises, and letters.

"She gave me everything I would need to become her legal heir, of everything." He said, sadly. "I don't think she planned on coming back."

"If that were true, why would she send you for help?" You asked.

He shook his head, pulling out a certain yellow fold of paper from the stack. "That's for the house."

"Well, the first thing we can do is get someone out there in Wales looking for her," I said, starting to stand.

"No, no!" Jandi exclaimed. "No police, no government."

"Fine, not the police, but at least _someone_. Do you have friends in Wales? Neighbors?"

"We live in the country," He answered. "Outside town. We don't go in much. Just Red Cross friends and Afghanistan friends."

I cursed. "Where's that book?"

Jandi stuck his hand into the pile and pulled out a small leather-bound book. My heart went numb when I saw it, because I knew it was Macie's. There was a yellow-gold M stamped into the cover, with a gold bookmark near the middle. Flipping to it, a phone number with Major James Sholto's name assigned to it was circled in felt-tipped pen. It was his old number - I knew it didn't work because I had tried it myself, ages ago. I glanced quickly through the rest of the pages, recognizing some names and not others, and was filled with a strange sort of nostalgia reading the names of the men and women I had served with.

"Well, Jandi, you can stay here as long as you need to. We'll help you figure this out, however we can." I closed the book. "Do you need anything, right now? Food, water, a shower?"

"Oh, a shower would be good," He sighed.

"There's a full bathroom upstairs, with a bedroom. We can get you situated there. Feel free to use whatever you see."

I smiled at him, and he smiled back. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Please, just John is fine. I know it's been a while, but I'm still the same old John."

He nodded sheepishly and began to collect his things.

* * *

While the water from the shower ran overhead, I rummaged through our closet and picked out the pieces of my suit. I hadn't worn it in ages. After losing so much weight over the winter, only a handful of my dress shirts even fit me, and even less of my trousers. I managed to find a black-and-white pinstripe shirt that wasn't too wrinkled, and a pair of pleated black trousers that didn't sag as long as I wore the right belt. I quickly stripped and began to change.

"I mean, I respect Macie's desire not to go to the police, but I've got to do something about this, and Guendolyn is our best bet. I can't just sit around and try to deduce it away, I have to make sure there's something being done."

"That's understandable," You said. You had decided (finally) to give your body some rest, only after your stitches had begun to come undone. You were propped up on some pillows to watch me, but still mostly horizontal, and I was going to take what I could get. You brushed your hand through your hair. "Franklin Guendolyn. That was the man at your father's funeral, wasn't it?"

"Mm-hmm, the colonel."

"I would imagine that he'd push for the police."

"Then that's his call. But he knows best. Franklin's pretty good about this sort of stuff."

"Are there many Taliban kidnappings among Afghanistan veterans?" You scoffed.

"We don't know if it was the Taliban, or anything like that," I said.

"It's the most likely."

I shook my head. "Whatever it is, I'll let Franklin take care of it. He's been the representative for the war for a long time, and he knows the ins and outs. He'll be able to help us." I nodded, more reassuring myself than reassuring you. "He'll know what to do."

"What about this _Sholto_ man?" You asked. "Who is he? Have I met him?"

I hesitated, my mouth not quite forming the right words, and I ended up stammering. "No, you haven't. He's, uh, well, he's, he _was_ one of the majors that I - _we_, Macie and I - worked with. In Afghanistan. One of the upper men, the soldiers. On the battlefield."

You nodded. I could feel the heat from your eyes boring into me. "What else?"

I turned. "What do you mean, 'what else'? There's nothing else."

It was obvious you weren't convinced, but you dropped the topic in favor of another one. "Explain all this to me. How do you know these people."

"Well, while I was in Afghanistan, I was assigned as an assistant surgeon under the supervision of Dr. Lewis Roth. I'm sure I've told you that before. But it wasn't just me, I wasn't the only assitant surgeon. Macie Lowdry, she was the other assistant. We worked with the corpsmen and were, eh, fairly close during the time."

"Alright, and what about Jahandar?"

"Jahandar was first brought into camp before my time. We - Roth, Macie, and I - were all stationed in Camp Ristol with the Fifth Fusiliers, and that's where we met Jandi. He was orphaned when he was younger, his family killed by some Muslim activists, as I heard it; he sustained some injuries, but the English doctors nursed him back to health. He'd been a part of life there for a while. Learned English, dormed with the hospital staff, that sort of thing. He was just a boy when I was over there, but he's still that skittish sort of kid, I guess."

"And Sholto?"

"I already told you, he was one of the majors in Camp Ristol."

"Why was he important? Why would this woman single him out for Jandi to run to? Why was he special?"

I studied you for a few seconds. I knew you were good, but you _couldn't_ have known everything from just a glance. I had your attention, though, and all your interest. Or, rather, Sholto did, and Sholto's relation with the problem. Sholto's relation with me.

"I'm not sure, Sherlock." I answered, honestly. "He was a good friend of mine. Macie, too. But why she would single him out? I don't know. Maybe something happened between the two of them after I was deported. But I'm not sure." I tightened and fastened my belt. "Maybe Franklin will know."

"Maybe."

You caught my eye again, this time pointedly. You saw something; you just didn't know what. I tipped my head. Yes, you did in fact see something. But I wasn't going to give you the satisfaction of telling you what it was. We hadn't talked about it before, and I wasn't entirely convinced you were ready for it. I grabbed a raincoat from within the closet and stepped toward the door, your eyes still following me all the way.

"Get some rest, and don't tell Jandi where I've gone. I don't want him to worry."

I paused before the door, watching you, and then stepped and leaned forward to peck my lips against the top of your head. You blinked, slightly miffed, but I didn't mind. I patted your shoulder, said goodbye, and closed the door behind me.

* * *

There's lots of new stuff I just introduced, oops. If you're still unsure about anything, tell me and I'll address it in the next chapter. If not, I win this time.

Pass around the lampshade, there'll be plenty enough reviews in jail.

Follow for the next update


	4. Chapter 4

By the time I reached the steps of Parliament, it had started to drizzle a bit, and I pulled my coat tighter against myself. I called for Colonel Guendolyn on the cab ride over, but had only gotten as far as his PA, who kindly let me know that the colonel was engaged in a meeting but could speak with me afterward. Of course, there was still an hour left until the meeting was scheduled to end, and even the scheduled end wasn't always met.

I took a seat in the hall outside his commitee-room, drumming my fingers against my legs and trying to prepare what I was going to tell him. It was a bit difficult, especially regarding how close I was to the case myself. Macie and I had been through more shit than I'd like to say, and, now, imagining her in danger? It was painful.

I racked my memory for any possible leads, but I was one of the people who discouraged her little missionary escapades in the first place. It was frustrating to know that I had warned her about this very situation years ago, but it was now, after she'd built a life, that she was dealing with the reprocussions. She was only trying to help people. Who would want to hurt her for doing _that_?

And what did Sholto have to do with any of this? He was friends with me, not necessarily with her. At least, that's what I saw. I had assumed that after my deportation things continued on in the camp in the same way they had always gone, but maybe I was wrong. I hoped not, but maybe Sholto was involved. Maybe there was something there, something I never noticed. Oh, but the thought of it made me sick. I didn't know why - I should've moved past it by now. But it made me a bit grievous.

I had to stop thinking about it. What time was it, anyway? I glanced down at my watch: three thirty-seven. I'd been sitting in that hall for an hour-and-a-half. Dammit. An hour-and-a-half, wasted.

Soon, to my luck, the doors opened, and out came Colonel Guendolyn. He was flanked by several other men with crisp suits and expensive phones, looking serious and particularly uninterested in me. I stood up and joining the passing group as they started down the hall, struggling to push myself closer to Franklin. I tried to ignore the men's conversation, but little words like "war" and "cost cuts" caught on my ears. Franklin waved them off and shooed them away whenever they came too close, remarking something about politics.

I broke through to the front of the line and reached out to touch Franklin's arm. He whipped around as if he were suddenly very offended, but as soon he realized who I was, his expression went soft.

"Is that John?" He asked, beaming my direction.

"Hello, colonel," I said, offering my hand.

"It's good to see you, son." He took my hand and nudged me gently from the group. He then scowled at the other men. "I already told you, this debate is over. I have more important things than the lot of you. The next meeting is at seven o'clock, sharp. We'll finish there."

The men complained at first, but, under the heat of Franklin's glare, they bowed out and scampered from the hall. Within a minute or so, he and I were left standing in the light of the rain-streaked window.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Franklin said, chuckling. "A few months, yeah?"

"Yes, since January." I nodded. "You look like you're doing well."

"I am, I am. And you, too. Put on a few more pounds since last I saw you."

"Yeah, a few."

"Good for you." He patted my shoulder. "How's your mother doing?"

"She's getting by."

"I'm sure it must be hard for her, losing your father so quickly. She broke my heart at the funeral, her speech had me sobbing."

I nodded. "It was painful for all of us."

"Bless her heart. But, on to better things." He motioned for me to walk with him. "We'll head on down to my office. Rachel told me you had something important to talk to me about. Is there something you need? Haven't gotten yourself into trouble, have you?"

"No, nothing like that. It's not particularly about me."

He raised his eyebrow. "Is it that fiancé of yours? Wedding plans yet?"

"No, not that either."

"Then, what?"

I paused, taking a little breath. "Jahandar Dali came to my flat this morning, from Wales."

"Jahandar? Who is that?" I could see that as soon as he said it, he remembered. "Oh. That's the boy from Afghanistan, isn't it. He came to your flat? Why?"

"He told us that Macie had gone missing."

Franklin made a disappointed sort of noise. We turned a corner into an elevator, and while he pressed the key, I cleared my throat and continued.

"Macie had known that she was in danger, before she disappeared. She gave Jandi instructions to search out Major James Sholto. However, he wasn't able to reach him, and came to me instead. He's a bit worked up about it."

"I don't doubt that." Franklin nodded. "I would be."

"He didn't want to go to law enforcement, but I thought I could go to you. Is there any way I could get you to keep this quiet, for now?"

"Of course. I know the meaning of privacy," He nodded. "But, if Macie is really missing, that's a problem for the police, not a Parliament representative."

"There's a chance that she could have been kidnapped by members of an Afghan cartel," I said, quietly.

He hummed, folding his hands behind his back. "That changes things."

The elevator came to a stop, and Franklin led me down another hallway into his slice of Parliament. Rain pecked at the windows, and umbrellas began to dot the street below us, bobbing up and down along the roadway as cabs and buses pushed past. He opened the door for me, and we were greeted by his PA, seated behind her desk. He ushered me farther, behind a frosted half-wall and into his personal space, where stood tall bookshelves and a long oak-wood desk. He walked around to take his seat, and I took mine across from him, settling down into the chair and stretching out my leg.

"Don't worry about Rachel, she's signed plenty of confidentiality papers," He assured, first of all.

"Oh, that's fine. I assumed." I nodded.

"Yes. Well, John, I'll have to admit, this isn't really a shocking thing. You know that as well as I do."

"I think so."

"Macie knew what she was getting into when she went into that town. I tried to stop her - plenty of people did. We all knew what could happen if she was discovered. But she didn't care, for one reason or another. If she got herself mixed up with the wrong sort of people, the wrong sort of work, there isn't much I can do for her now."

"There's _nothing_?"

"I'm very limited."

"But, if-"

"The war is ending, John. The Americans are pulling out, and the elections are coming up fast. This is not the time for fighting, this is the time to let the Afghans have their country back. We can't be sending in teams now, it could turn into too much."

"Macie's _life_ could be in danger."

"As the result of her own choices."

"So, because it's _her_ fault, you won't help?"

"John, listen to me." Franklin leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. "Things are tense right now. There's all kinds of chaos in Afghanistan. Sending in a team would be like throwing gasoline on a fire. It'd just give the terrorists more ammunition to toss right back at us. And, frankly, we can't risk the security of that country, or the security of ours, on one woman."

"I'm not saying to risk our security, just get someone in there." I pleaded. "You don't have to storm in, guns blazing. Talk to the ambassador. Talk to someone. Try to get word on her, anything. She's a British citizen, isn't she?"

He sat back. "I can talk to the ambassador. But we have a country to think about."

I wrung my wrists. As cold as the words were coming from Frankli's mouth, he seemed apologetic, and I could sense that he really did want to help. He reached over to his computer and woke it up, typing a few words into the keypad and shouting to his PA.

"Rachel, I want you to send a note to Stagg, tell him that I'd like to have some words with him. Soon, if possible."

She gave an affirmative, and he turned back to me.

"I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, maybe you should get in contact with the major."

"That'll be a bit difficult," I admitted. "He doesn't like to be bothered."

"I know that. But he may be of help. I'm not intimate with the things Macie was involved with, but I know that Sholto was assigned over her for a while, and she might have shared more information with him than she did with me. He might be able to remember details or get into contact with people that could help you. Do you have his contact?"

"Yeah, his e-mail."

"Alright. If that doesn't work, though, tell me, I can hunt him for you."

I sighed and nodded. "Thank you."

"I wish I could stay and discuss more with you, but I have another arrangement in, ah..." He glanced at his watch. "Fifteen minutes, and I have some e-mails to send. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to call."

"Alright, I will." I stood from my chair and reached forward to shake his hand.

He grapsed it firmly, giving me a stern look. "Be careful, John. And keep a close eye on that Jandi."

"I will." I gave him a nod, then turned. I could feel him watching me as I turned the corner.

* * *

"Now, tie that shoestring to the negative bracket on the third battery. Be careful. As soon as they make contact there's going to be heat exchange, so make sure those gloves are on properly. I've found that John doesn't particularly like the smell of burnt fingers."

I pulled myself up the stairs to the flat with my brow arched high. The door was left open, both the one to the sitting room and to the kitchen, and I could see your feet dipping from the edge of the sofa. You had taken the blankets and pillows from our bed and made yourself quite comfortable on the couch, while Jandi stood across the room, your huge rubber gloves hanging off his arms, two pairs of shoelaces in each hand. He seemed quite entertained by the set-up you had constructed between the two of you.

"Sherlock, I told you, no more experiments," I sighed, standing in the doorway.

"Jahandar is doing the experiment, I'm only watching." You defended. "And giving a bit of direction. Now, attatch the fourth shoe lace to the-"

"No, no, no. I'm not going to have anything blowing up today." I stepped around the mess and reached for a certain loose strand of shoelace, but you chirped loudly.

"Don't touch anything, John, those laces are _live_."

I looked at you. "_Shoelaces_ don't conduct electricity, Sherlock."

You waved me off. "Let Jahandar dismantle it."

I put my hands in the air and stripped off my jacket. I was exhausted; running around London on a handful of hours of sleep was not turning out well for me. I folded my jacket and laid it across the back of my armchair, then braced my hands on it and leaned forward, stretching out my neck a little and taking a long, deep breath.

"How did it go?" You asked. "Untie the second negative bracket first."

"What?" I looked up.

"Jandi. Second negative bracket."

Jandi waddled towards one of the large car batteries situated along the desk and began working away at the shoelace. You turned back to me. "How did it go?"

"Not well." I sighed. "He said he would get in contact with the ambassador and see if anything could be done, but he didn't sound hopeful."

"Did you mention Sholto to him? Third positive bracket."

"Yes, I did. He said to get in contact with him, see if he knows anything. Speaking of which, I'll do that now."

I straightened, pausing just a second to let my muscles adjust, and then walked toward the desk. Your eyes fluttered along with me, and I could see your expression go a little cold, but I ignored it and grapped my laptop off the desk. You had left a few extra pages over the top, but I was gracious enough to clean them off for you. I sat down in my chair and set the computer on my knee.

"Is your leg hurting?" You asked.

"Hmm? Yeah, it's a little sore. Not much. I'm fine." I gave you a nod, then opened up my screen.

"I can massage it if you want. First positive bracket."

"It's probably just the rain, change of the weather."

"You should lay down."

"I'm fine."

Our eyes met. You looked very tired, but also stern. I felt bad that you had to worry every time I had a little limp, but, then again, it was a reminder to me, too, to look out for it. The limp had sort-of become my body's own way of telling me to slow down and relax. I rubbed my leg and stretched it out, balancing the laptop carefully between my thighs, opening my e-mail account.

"Take the closed end out of the fishbowl."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," I exclaimed, clicking on an e-mail. "I completely forgot."

"About what?"

"Greg wanted to see me in Hyde Park today. Oh, damn. He's there, right-" I glanced at my watch. "-right now, he's there and I'm supposed to be there. I totally forgot. Ugh, damn. Where's the dog? Gladstone!"

Our Basenji came trotting out of our bedroom, nuzzling his head into my hand and practically begging to be released from the flat. I closed my laptop and set it down on the floor, standing and grabbing for my jacket. A sharp pain went up from my knee, and I reached down to rub it, smoothing over the fabric of my trousers while simultaneously trying to play it off.

You wouldn't have it. "John, you should stay home. Rest your leg."

"I promised Greg I'd meet him, I don't want to-"

"John."

You weren't kidding. You let out a little sigh and pushed the blankets off your lap, sticking your lanky legs out over the floor and slowly standing up. You definitely looked pale - the medicine must've been wearing off, you were starting to feel the pain from the surgery.

"You can reschedule. You've hardly got any sleep, you've been stressed and running around all day. It's not good for you."

"But I feel-"

You stepped forward and set your hand against my shoulder.

"Reschedule."

My eyes flashed, but you were not interested in debating, and so I resigned. "Fine. I'll send him a text."

"Thank you."

I mumbled at you, walking back to my armchair and fishing my phone out of my jacket pocket. "I'll go tomorrow instead. But definitely tomorrow."

"I have no complaints." You said, laying back down on the sofa. "Second negative bracket."

I nodded and leaned into the spine of the armchair while I texted.

_Hey, sorry, I couldn't make it. Something else came up. Could we meet tomorrow instead?_ - JW

You exchanged another glance with me, a softer one, this time. I knitted my eyebrows, and you softened your jaw. I was exhausted; you were exhausted, and in pain. But you were resting, at least. Laying down. I was running around London and getting myself worked up. I definitely needed sleep, and tea. Lots of tea.

"Sleeping will help," You said.

I nodded and stretched. "Maybe."

* * *

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	5. Chapter 5

I slept for a few good hours, but I was nervous that if I slept too long my schedule would be too jumbled. Sleep was important, especially with this new stress, and I didn't think I would be much help as the irritable mess I would be if my sleep schedule took a hard hit. I forced myself out of bed around six in the afternoon, desperate for caffine, and a bit exhausted with everything around me. While you took a spot on our bed, I played a few games of chess with Jandi, then settled him in to the guest bedroom upstairs.

Your meds had worn off, and as a result you were two steps from miserable. You were comforting yourself with crime reports on our bedroom telly and inhaling carton after carton of sherbet that Mrs. Hudson had brought for you. But, unluckily, sherbet doesn't cure pain. Your skin had gotten a bit pale by the time I had made it into bed.

"Oh, Sherlock, you look horrible." I set my laptop down and crossed over to where you laid. Your eyes followed me, but your head didn't.

"Really? I hadn't noticed." You quipped.

I put my hand against your forehead. "Well, at least you don't have a fever."

"I'll be fine," You said.

"Is it just the pain? Are you sure you don't want medication?"

"No drugs."

"I have a prescription from your doctor that should be safe. It's softer than morphine, but it can take the edge off."

"_No_ drugs."

I frowned, but I realized that if you were so adamant about your refusal, it was probably for a good reason. I didn't blame you for being nervous, or cautious, whatever the reason. I leaned forward, brushing your hair back, and gently kissed your hairline before returning to my side of the bed.

While you drowned yourself in your crime show, I opened up my laptop and started typing. The only way I had to contact Major Sholto was through e-mail: his mobile phone had been disconnected, and all landlines I'd tried came up dry. I didn't even have an address for paper mail. He and I had exchanged a few e-mails before, when he was first deported, but since then hadn't kept up much. He was a very private man, and I wanted to honor his comfort. I just hoped that he hadn't changed his e-mail account.

You glanced over my shoulder a few times to see what I was working on, but couldn't move too much. "Are you sending that to the major?" You asked.

"Yes."

You nodded, turning your attention back to the telly.

A story had just finished about a recent string of double-murders that had kept you plenty captivated. As I typed, I half-mindedly caught a few details that I would have rather left unheard, about the extent of their wounds or the pre-death sexual abuse. I glanced up to shoot you a look, but you barely noticed. You were still trying to decide whether it was the mailman or the electrician who had done the brutal stabbings. But as that particular story ended (it was the mailman, after all), the next began playing some preview clips, and I glanced up to see it.

The station chose particular clips of a young woman walking through a dark university. She was a pretty girl, but she looked scared. Her heels clicked along the hall where she walked. Shadows moved along behind her, but just as they were about to reach her, a university professor walked out to meet her. She seemed relieved, but then it cut to slides of a mutilated body. "Krissy Wiles, age twenty-two, was held captive for twelve days by her English professor. During that time, she was raped numerous times, in various ways with various items, which caused massive rectal and vaginal bleeding, along with intense internal-"

"Okay, Sherlock, turn that off." I interrupted, nudging you with my foot. "I've heard enough for tonight."

You glanced at me, huffed a bit, then clicked the telly off. The bloody woman faded to black, and you decided it was a good idea to face the night and work yourself into a sitting position.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"I'm changing out of these clothes," You hissed, grinding your teeth as you gently inclined.

You paused, taking a breath, and then reached to undo the buttons of your shirt. I watched you at first, then set my computer down and went over to help you. Your bandages were packed heavy and tight over your stomach, and although at first I considered re-wrapping them, I chose to leave them rather than put you in more pain. They were still fairly clean, sleeping in them wouldn't be a problem.

"Jandi told me a bit about him," You said, studying me. "Your former commander."

"Former?" I repeated.

"Ex," You corrected.

"You asked him about it?" I didn't know whether to sigh or chuckle.

"I was curious. And it didn't seem like you were interested in sharing."

"So you asked someone else?"

"Logically."

I shook my head and straightened, fetching a nightshirt from your dresser. "What did he say about it?"

"He told me that the two of you were friends."

"Did he?"

"Good friends."

I glanced at you. Your eyes were narrow, lips upturned.

"Is that _all_ he said?"

"Is that all there is?"

"You didn't actually ask him, you bastard."

"But I do want to know."

I sighed, walking back and slipping the shirt on over your head. "We were friends. _Good_ friends, as you so kindly put it. But that was it, just friends. He was a strict, cold sort of man, but was kind to me, and he was open with me; he wasn't open with many people. We bonded quite a bit. I would even say he was my best friend, while we were there."

"Interesting. Have you seen him since you've come back to London?"

"Er, no. I was deported about three years before he was. I tried to see him in the hospital when he first arrived, but I wasn't able to get in because of the press."

"Hospital? Press?"

I nodded. "There was an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"A bad one. He led a team of new recruits into battle - 'crows', we called them. It was all standard, usual, but something went wrong. Everyone on the team died; Sholto was the only survivor. He sustained some pretty critical injures from grenade fire, as I heard. He was decorated and honored for his service, but not everyone felt he should have been. The press crucified him in the papers and all over the web. He got all kinds of death threats. Since then he's shut himself up, stays out of reach, and doesn't talk to many people."

"And now he's a pivotal part of a kidnapping case. How interesting."

"Please, Sherlock." I set my hand on your shoulder. "Sholto's been through hell. Try to at least be a little respectful."

You looked suspicious, but I watered it down with my own seriousness. I then changed the subject.

"Do you want new trousers or just sleep in your pants?"

You glanced down and gave a hum. "I think pants would be fine. It's not too cold tonight. And, plus, I have you."

I clicked my tongue and bent to unzip your trousers. "Maybe it would be less uncomfortable if you lay down."

There was a dark shimmer in your eye as you moved yourself back onto the pillows. I chuckled at you. At the end of the day, it didn't matter how much pain you were in, you always liked the thought of having my skin against yours. I arranged myself on the bed beside your legs and started on the zipper of your trousers, refusing you the pleasure of meeting your lusty gaze.

"If I hadn't just lost an organ, I would've had so much fun with this," You said.

"It's too bad for you, then, hmm?" I quipped back.

"One of us is still able-bodied," You reached up your hand and brushed it against my temple, fingering a strand of my hair.

"I would help you out, but..." I slid your trousers down from around your hips. "I don't think you've quite earned it."

"_Earned_ it?"

A little grin snaked across my face, and your fingers trailed to my jawline. Careful not to upset the bed too much, I crawled forward and pecked at your lips. I braced myself against your pillows, my lips trailing from your mouth to your nose, then around to the side of your neck, gingerly touching your shoulders and the curly strands of your hair.

Your hands roamed under my shirt, running along my sides and back, pulling me closer and getting me a little excited. I kept kissing you, leaving a little trail of kisses down from your jaw to your neck, petting your shoulders and arms until I could reposition myself. If there was anything I could do to help you, I decided, it was this.

I reached down toward your pants, pushing the waistband just a little lower and your shirt just a little higher, exposing your hips and the bottom of your belly. Gently I laid my lips against it, getting a little grumble from you in response. I let my hands fall to your thighs, rubbing little circles there. My teeth gently scraped against where your bone met the skin, and your hand found my hair. I let my tongue roll along the smooth expanse of skin, letting my thumb slip underneath the fringe of your pants, tugging and kissing.

Both of us jolted as our door swung open and Jandi, completely oblivious, stepped into the room. He started to say something, but upon seeing how close my face was to your pelvis, immediately turned pink and made a shrieking sound. "Oh, _spee bachee_, I'm so sorry, I didn't-" He stammered, turning his head away and pulling the door shut behind him. "I'm sorry! I'll go!"

We froze, unsure of what to do at first, but as you met my eyes we burst into laughter. I collapsed against your leg, letting myself relax a little, and you groaned with fresh pain in your side, but we laughed it off, shaking our heads and shrugging off our own embarassment.

"I guess we'll have to remember to lock the door next time," I chuckled, getting up and tossing your trousers into the hamper. "I'll go see what he needed."

"Tell him to use the laptop the next time he feels like porn," You said, nursing your side.

"How about _you_ use the laptop the next time you feel like porn." I smiled, and patted you on the ankle before trotting out.

Jandi wasn't curled up in the corner like I expected him to be, but his feathers were pretty ruffled, and he was pacing around the kitchen as if he'd just seen a ghost. I smoothed out my jumper and tittered at him, feeling a little less embarassed when I saw just how embarassed he was. "Sorry about that, Jandi, ah... We should've warned you."

"It's alright, I should have warned _you_." He smiled sheepishly.

I shrugged, stretching my shoulders. "Did you need something?"

"Ah, yes." He glanced toward the door, then back at me. "The bedroom upstairs, er, I'm... not really used to being so far away. Is it alright if I slept on the sofa? I'll be fine on the sofa."

"The sofa?"

He nodded. "I feel too far away."

"Oh. Well, alright, if that's what you want. I'll help you move your things."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson." Jandi fled back up the stairs.

I rubbed my neck, watching him go and taking a moment to reassess. Too far away? Maybe he was just trying to say he was scared of the bedroom. It did look pretty barren up there, and it was separate from this flat. He could have just been homesick, or overthinking things. But whatever the reason, it wasn't a problem for him to occupy the sofa, and I followed him up the stairs to collect the bedstuffs.

* * *

It only took us a few minutes to get his bedding down, but by the time I rejoined you, you had lost interest in kissing and groping. Your side was hurting again, and you stated very clearly that you only wanted to sleep. You did, however, invite me to lay with you, which I had to (regrettably) decline in favor of the e-mail I still hadn't finished.

"I need to send this before bed, I want his answer as soon as I can get it." I said, opening my laptop back up. "I sure hope it saved."

"You do that, then. I'm sleeping." You grumbled, laying down farther into the pillows.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," I hummed, unlocking the screen.

It wasn't usual that I felt awkward in front of a keyboard. In fact, all my time spent writing blog posts about you had made the keyboard one of the most comfortable places for me to be. But tonight, it was just difficult. I hadn't spoken to Sholto in months - maybe even years. I had no idea what to say. I wanted to sound urgent, but not rude; direct, but not hasty. Would he take that phrase the wrong way? Would he think what I think if I use that word rather than another? It took me almost half an hour to finish one e-mail, and it wasn't even very long.

_ Date: April 4, 2014  
__ Time: 7:49 P.M.  
__ To: Maj. James Sholto  
__ From: Dr. John Watson  
__ Subject: Urgent_

_Good evening, James. I know it's been a long time since we've spoken. I hope you're doing well._

_I'm writing you because this morning I recieved a visitor who I was not in the least expecting. Jahandar Dali, our friend from Camp Ristol, showed up at my doorstep all the way from Wales. He was sweaty and jittery, but he had some shocking news to tell me. He's been living and travelling with Macie Lowdry for the last few years, and just recently she's gone missing. He fears that something may have happened to her._

_A little while before Macie disappeared, she told Jandi to contact you in case anything was amiss. He tried to find you, but since you've taken such precautions to keep your location private, it was difficult for him, and he came to me instead. I knew that you had been available via e-mail before, so hopefully you'll be able to help us this way. Do you know what's going on? Jandi is very shaken by the whole situation._

_If you know anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to tell me. My e-mail account is secure, if you're worried about that. No one else will see these messages. And if you've gotten yourself into any sort of trouble, James, let me know. I can help. I want to help._

_Please reply as soon as you're able. Thank-you._

_ JW_

I hit send before I could over-think myself, and sat back as the message went through my outbox. There. It was done. The message was sent, and tomorrow there would be a reply. Well, hopefully tomorrow. Knowing Sholto, it might be the next day, or the day after next. But it would be in everyone's good favor if it came soon. I shut down the computer and slid it into the bed-side drawer, letting the drawer click shut before reaching up for the light.

You weren't quite asleep yet, but I decided not to bother you in case you were still in pain. I switched off the lamp and pulled the blankets up around my shoulders, wriggling myself closer to you until I could feel your arm against mine, leaning my forehead against your shoulder. I grasped your hand, and you gave a gentle squeeze, intertwining your fingers with mine.

* * *

I'm gonna fly like a review through the night, feel my tears as they dry.

Follow for the next update.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, I was up by six-thirty, watching the clouds adjust their colors with a steaming cup of tea in my hand. You and Jandi were still asleep, you in the bedroom and he on the sofa, and so I tried to be as quiet as I could as I made myself usefully and worked on cleaning up our disaster of a kitchen.

It started when I needed a place to put down my computer while waiting for the kettle, but it turned into a full-fledged cleaning session when I realized that some of your test-tubes and instruments were collecting dust. You hadn't had a lot of time to experiment lately, with all the work Lestrade had been piling you into, and it wasn't good for your equipment to lay out where it could be broken or contaminated. You wouldn't miss it for a while, anyway, so I took my chance.

Once I could see the color of the table, I set down my laptop and opened it to my e-mail account. There was no reply from Sholto yet, but I wasn't all too disappointed. I left it open and kept cleaning, moving from the table to the countertop.

Jandi stirred a little later, around eight, and greeted me sleepily. The stove was at least mostly clean by then, so I fired it up and made a skillet of eggs for the two of us. You were going to be on a diet of broth and milk for a few days, so I didn't bother making any for you. Around nine, I heard the telly in our room going again, so I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge and brought it to you.

The pain was still bothering you, but you claimed it wasn't as bad as yesterday. I helped you change the bandages and put some fresh ointment over the wound, then you laid back and swallowed down a few bites of yogurt. That dumb crime show was back on, so I didn't really feel like sticking around too long, but you did pull me over for a quick peck on the head before I went back out.

As I crossed the kitchen, a ding came from my computer. There was a new message in my inbox, and, sure enough, it was from Sholto. Well, it hadn't taken quite as long as I was expecting. My stomach did a happy little flip, and I sat down to open it.

_ Date: April 5, 2014_

_ Time: 9:11 A.M._

_ To: Dr. John Watson_

_ From: Maj. James Sholto_

_ Subect: Re: Urgent_

_Hello, John. It's good to hear from you._

_I wish I could help you, but in all honesty, I don't know why Macie would have told Jandi to search me out. I haven't been in contact with her at all since my deportment. She and I had been friends, obviously, and we had shared responsibility over Jahandar while he was in Ristol, but besides that, I've had no participation with the two of them since returning to the country._

_Give Jandi my consolation. This situation is very strange. I understand your interest in helping Macie in whatever predicament she may be in, but I'll warn you to be careful if you're going to meddle in her personal business. Macie always meant the best, but at times she did get involved too deeply with people and societies that she should not have._

_In whatever you do, please watch over yourself. Letting the police handle this might be the wisest choice where you are. If Macie has stumbled into trouble, your getting involved could cause more damage than it mends. Be wary of that._

_Let me know when there are more developments. I do hope Macie is alright. I'll be expecting to hear from you soon._

_ JS_

I sat back in my chair, drumming my fingers against the table-top and staring at the message. I was a bit frustrated to hear that he was just as confused as I was as to why Macie would send Jandi to him, and that made everything more confusing. If she really didn't have a reason, that mean there was nothing for us to work with, no trail and no leads. Sholto didn't sound quite as pessimistic as Franklin had, but he still sounded pretty sure that she had gotten herself into something serious, and that didn't make me feel any better.

Jandi joined me in the kitchen and peered at the screen. "Is that Major Sholto?" He asked.

"It is," I nodded.

"What did he say?"

"He doesn't know much." I sighed, closing the e-mail. "It looks like we're back to square one."

Jandi nodded, letting his head sag. He slid into another chair beside me, leaning his elbow up against the table.

I studied him for a moment, then shifted. "Jandi, if there's anything else you have to tell us, anything that could help, it would be very much appreciated."

"There's nothing." His eyes flashed with sadness, and he shook his head.

* * *

_ Date: March 5, 2014_

_ Time: 10:52 A.M._

_ To: Maj. James Sholto_

_ From: Dr. John Watson_

_ Subject: Re: Re: Urgent_

_Well, that is strange. If you don't know any specifically necessary details, then I think it'd be safe to assume she'd send him to you for protection. If the both of you were supposed to be responsible for him, that would make sense. But if you do know any details as to who she met and where she went while she was in Afghanistan, that would be extremely useful._

_I'll be careful. We're going to put off contacting the authorities for now, though; just until we're certain that this isn't something that could be blown out of proportion by the police or the press. Better safe than sorry. I did contact Franklin Guendolyn, from the veteran services office, but he couldn't help us much. If we find that something dangerous is going on here, we have people to call._

_Thanks for your help, James. I'll stay in touch._

_ JW_

* * *

"It really is fine, John." Greg smiled, sipping at his drink. "I figured you would be tired after the whole hospital thing, coffee was just an option. I was dog dead tired, too."

"I can imagine." I rested my cup against my thigh. "How are your cases coming?"

"They're going alright, just running real slowly. Sluggish is the right word. Painfully sluggish." He swirled his cup. "It isn't easy for me to stay awake most the time. God, what I'd give for one good night of sleep."

I nodded. "I'm sorry I had to take your leading logician off the team."

"Nah, it's fine. Sherlock's done more than his fair share's already. It's good he gets some rest, he definitely needs it. How's he doing, by the way? Has he settled down alright?"

"As alright as he _can_ settle. You know how he is. You can't keep him down for more than five minutes without him putting up a fight. But he's resting - I think the pain's starting to get to him."

"Is he taking any meds for it?"

"No. He thought it would be better if he didn't, just in case."

"Ah, alright, that's smart of him. Tell him to get better quick, then, I'd like to have him back as soon as he's able."

"I'll tell him."

Greg's lip quirked upward, and he took another swig of his coffee. The clouds had pulled back just a bit from the sky, letting a few strands of sunlight stream through, warming up the air and brightening the trees. Gladstone sat comfortably at our feet, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and panting happily. Hyde Park was quiet and calm, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. No stress, no cases. We watched the people around us pass and finished off our coffees, letting ourselves recharge in the daylight.

"Since we're on the subject of Sherlock," He threw in, "I still haven't gotten a wedding invitation."

I pursed my lips. "No, we're still pushing back the date."

Greg frowned, his eyebrows curling. "Problems?"

"No, nothing like that. Sherlock is great, he's fine, it's just me. I don't know, I just feel like we moved really fast into the engagement and I don't want to make the mistake of rushing into a marriage. I don't- I'm not getting cold feet or anything, I just want to make sure we're doing this the right way, at the right speed. Once we're settled, once my meds balance out and things start to get calmer, then we'll start planning."

"That's all right and good," He nodded, "but, you realize that, with Sherlock, _nothing_ is going to get calm for very long."

"Yes, I know. But-" I sighed. "I just want more time."

"Alright. That's fine, of course." He affirmed. "How does Sherlock feel about that?"

I laughed. "He's not too happy."

"Oh, I believe it."

I shook my head.

"Have you told him about the stuff with Sholto?" He asked.

"Eh, a little." I rubbed my bad thigh, feeling a little sheepish. "I'm trying to put it off as long as I can."

Greg hummed. "That's probably not a good idea."

"It'll be fine."

"Did you at least tell him you two were _interested_?"

"Not quite. And, I mean, it's not that I _don't_ want him to know, it's just that there's not a good reason he _should_. There's nothing there anymore, I haven't even seen the man in years. I don't think Sherlock would react in any _positive_ way to the information, especially right now, with everything going on. It's best I just let him focus his attention on important things rather than bogging him down with extra stress."

"I think it would be more dangerous to keep him in the dark. He doesn't like not knowing things."

"I know, but it's for his own good."

"Don't you think he'll deduce it off you anyway? What's the use of hiding it if he'll just figure it out for himself?"

"If he figures it out for himself, good for him. But I'm not going to give him a free ticket."

He chuckled. "You probably won't have to."

"I don't really appreciate you being so negative," I huffed.

"Sorry, sorry. Just keep me updated."

"I will." I nodded. "I'm e-mailing the major, to see if he has any information on Macie, but so far it's looking like he doesn't know much more than we do." My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I dug inside to get to it. "We're running out of options very quickly, and I'm starting to worry if there really is nothing we can do, after all."

"If there isn't, that's alright, though. It never really was your battle in the first place."

"She's important to me, I want to do what I can for her. Especially since we're in that line of... work..." I stared at my phone screen.

_Jandi missing from the flat. Front door open. - _SH

"John?" Lestrade squinted his eyes. "What is it?"

"Jesus Christ," I murmured, "I've got to get home."

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"Jandi's gone off somewhere." I said, standing up. Gladdie hopped into action. "He might be lost. Oh, Jesus."

"Need me to help look? I have my car," Greg offered, following.

"If you're not busy."

"I'm not too busy," He tossed his cup in the trash can. "Let's get going."

* * *

You in a cab and Greg and I in his police car, we combed through the streets surrounding Baker Street and snaked off into the rest of London, our eyes peeled for anyone resembling Jandi. We had no idea why he had gone out or where he was headed, but we searched as far as was possible. You recounted the story over text: you had fallen asleep in the bedroom, and he had evidently gone right out the front door. By the time you woke, the house was empty, and you sent me the text.

We spent a little over an hour just driving up and down various streets, and Greg and I were both getting restless, so we decided to start walking. I barely even noticed my leg, and I was grateful for that. After another hour Greg put out a report for the officers in the area to keep a look-out, too. I was nervous about that, and what Jandi's reaction would be if a policeman approached him, but it was the best we could get. We walked and down Marylebone, from Regent's Park to Hyde Park, with no sign of Jandi, and time kept passing.

Sundown was coming fast. There was no word, and there was no sign of him. You decided to leave the taxi behind and join us on the street. We were just about to head into Regent's, but stopped to wait for you at York Gate. As you climbed out of the car, we were able to see just how stone pale you were, frustrated with our lack of progress and wrapping your coat tightly around yourself. You stepped out and walked forward without hesitation, even with a bit of velocity.

"He couldn't have gotten too far, unless he took the tube," You said, not quite talking to either of us. "But _where_ could he have been going?"

"Wait, Sherlock," I got closer to you, giving you a doctor's once-over. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," You replied. "Let's get m-"

"No," I put a hand on your arm, and the other on your stomach. You glared down at me. "Why aren't you in pain?"

"I took morphine before I left. Now, if we can s-"

"Morphine?" I frowned.

"It was an emergency, and I could hardly move." You defended, shooting me a glance.

"I thought you got rid of your morphine."

"Can we please deal with the problem at hand."

I paused, then decided to let it go, at least for the time being. You gave me a curt nod and got moving, Lestrade and I falling quickly into step with you, moving with the current of the crowd. The cars bustling around us seemed to make the search even more stressful. Jandi could be lost, hurt, scared, panicking, anywhere on these streets, subject to anyone who could find him.

"Sherlock, we're not going to find him by ourselves, not once it's dark," I said, jogging to catch up with you. "Let's call Mycroft."

"Mycroft isn't in the country," Greg interjected.

"And he won't be happy for us to be bothering him about this," You agreed.

"We're running out of options, dammit!" I shouted. "If we just let h-"

"Sherlock," Greg grabbed your arm and pointed. You turned; across the street, a young woman with a cigarette-in-hand had her eyes pointedly resting on us. The crowd swelled and moved around her as she raised the cigarette to her lips, a smile curling with her breath of smoke. She motioned for us to come closer, and immediately I was filled with a sense of fear, as if this woman were the last person in the world we wanted to be following. But you were captured.

"Do you know her?" You asked, stepping toward the street.

"I don't. Ey, Sh-" Lestrade reached out to stop you. "Sherlock, stop. She's probably just some crackhead messing with us."

"If you have a better lead to follow, I'd like to see it," You snapped, pulling away from him and into the road.

When the woman saw that we had followed, she tossed her cigarette onto the ground and began walking, cutting through the crowd in the opposite direction of the way it was flowing. We came after her as fast as we could manage, falling into line with each other and fighting the rest of the walk. You struggled to keep your eyes on her head as it bobbed with the rest. She strode with confidence, leading us up Marylebone Road, disappearing and reappearing in the crowds like a beacon, glancing back every so often to make sure we were still there. You slowly gained ground as we made our way back up toward Baker Street.

We reached Allsop Plaza just as our mystery woman vanished, and the rough crowd nearly pushed you into a rage. You kept your arm nestled over your side, spinning around and knocking people out of your way as you peeled through the faces, waiting for recognization. You found it, but it wasn't the one you were expecting.

"He's there, John!" You shouted. "Down there!"

You bolted across the street before either of us could stop you. Cabs and cars blared their horns at you, and it was nothing short of a miracle that you weren't hit, but you barely even noticed. You zeroed down quickly on the little man you saw, bundled up at the corner of the plaza.

Lestrade and I joined you as you were helping him onto his feet. His left eye was swollen and his mouth was bloody, both mostly hidden by his hood, but was nursing his arm and ribs, which was the part I was really worried about. He wobbled on his feet as he regained his balance, and as I reached him, I put both hands on his arms, causing him to wince.

"I tried to get back, I swear I did," He was saying, his voice shaky. "But I just- I'm not used to-"

"What the _hell_ were you doing out?" I demanded. "You weren't supposed to leave the flat!"

Jandi burst into tears, and I didn't really know what to do. Lestrade called in to recall the report, and you craned your neck over the heads of the crowd, your eyes searching and preening and growing darker by the minute. The woman was gone, drowned in the crowd as the sun dipped behind the street. There was no finding her now.

* * *

Lay all your reviews on the bed, then I'll lay in it instead.

Follow for the next update.


	7. Chapter 7

"He didn't say anything?" You asked, sitting up. I closed the bedroom door behind me, leaning up against it for a moment just to get my bearings, then shook my head. You grunted and laid back down, letting your eyes drift back up toward the ceiling. "He's only getting himself deeper into trouble the more he hides his motives from us."

"He knows that." I sighed, crossing over to my side of the bed. "He's not stupid. He's just scared."

"He's just suspicious."

"Sherlock."

"Have you ever considered that maybe Macie wasn't the only reason he came to London?" You asked. "He tried to get into contact with the major who, obviously, does not live in London. He gave us no reason as to why he would come from Cardiff to London, he gave no account of what he did in the time that he was here before he came to us. Now he's gone off doing Christ-knows-what and gotten himself bloody bruised up about it. The chances of him being nothing but an bystander are getting slimmer and slimmer."

I kicked at your thigh. "I won't have you talking like that about Jandi."

You grunted. "Then get him to account for himself."

"He's just a kid."

"There's no excuse for being untrustworthy."

I glared at you and reached for my laptop. We had been busy so long that I hadn't even been able to check my e-mail. As I loaded up my account, a message was waiting there for me.

_ Date: March 5, 2014_  
_ Time: 1:36 P.M._  
_ To: Dr. John Watson_  
_ From: Maj. James Sholto_  
_ Subject: Re: Re: Re: Urgent_

_I'm not sure I should be sharing Macie's private matters with such a susceptible method as in e-mail. Not that I doubt your account's security, it's just that I've had my electronic communications breached on more than one occasion, and I don't want to put you or I in a compromising position if something dangerous is in fact going on here. All I can tell you is that while she herself is very open, the people she so willingly assists are not always so accepting. I haven't heard of any of them getting violent to the point of coming after her, but I would have never expected her to go missing, either._

_Call the police. Let them handle this. There isn't much else you can do._

_ JS_

"By the look on your face, I'd assume that was from the major," You drawled.

I glanced up at you. "What look?"

"Have you set up your e-mail to your mobile?"

"_What_ look?"

You huffed, stretching over and reaching into my trouser pocket to get at my phone. As you began typing things into my phone, I composed another reply on my computer. "You know, there's been a real trend going on lately," You mentioned. "If people would just _tell_ me things, it would solve a lot of problems that could have been avoided otherwise."

"There are about a hundred different things you could be referencing with that statement."

"I did say _trend_, didn't I?"

I shook my head. "Sholto says that he doesn't feel comfortable sharing details of Macie's interactions over the internet."

"Well, tell him to come here."

"He won't want to come here."

"Then we'll go to him."

"That could be possible. But _you_ shouldn't be travelling." I kept typing. "I'll offer to go myself. If it's a reasonable distance, I can go in the morning and get back later in the day. You and Jandi can stay here and rest up for a while."

"If he doesn't try to escape again," You said.

"He's not a prisoner, Sherlock."

"Not yet," You challenged, handing my phone back. "You should get alerts whenever there's a new message. That way you can respond to them faster."

"Thank you, just let me finish this." I took my phone.

_ Date: March 5, 2014_  
_ Time: 6:49 P.M._  
_ To: Maj. James Sholto_  
_ From: Dr. John Watson_  
_ Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Urgent_

_Would you consider meeting with me personally to discuss it? Since you're not comfortable transmitting it, sitting and talking in-person a possibility. I understand that you are wary of appearing in public, but I could visit you. It would be simpler, especially if it's privacy you're worried about._

_Jandi is getting restless, and I'm starting to suspect that he's not quite as safe here as I originally thought. I'd really like to learn as much as I can, so I can help the both of them._

_Let me know._

_ JW_

I hit send and closed the computer down, sliding it back into the bed-side drawer. "I don't want you making Jandi uncomfortable, alright? I'm sure he feels foolish enough already, he doesn't need you reaffirming it every chance you get. I promise it will be counterproductive."

"I won't reaffirm it unless he does."

I glared at you, and you watched me.

"Why are you so insecure, John." You asked.

"Insecure? I'm not insecure."

"Neither am I."

I hesitated. "Well, I'm glad we cleared that up?"

"Tell me about Sholto."

"There's nothing to explain."

"You're not a good liar. If you're going to meet with him, possibly alone, it's best I know, isn't it?" You said. "Tell me."

I pursed my lips. "Fine. I'll tell you."

"G-"

"As soon as you tell me where your stash is."

_That_ got you to backtrack. You guarded your reaction and bore into my eyes. "I don't have a stash."

"I know you do." I folded my arms, leaning back against the headboard. "You told me that you got rid of that stash two months ago. I took your word for it because you were doing well, you were being open about it. Now, what? You've given up? Where'd you even get the stuff? Did you buy it off the street or snatch it off Molly Hooper?"

"I didn't _snatch_ it off anyone," You defended. "I told you, I keep an emergency kit."

"You told me you got rid of the emergency kit."

"I did get rid of it. I only kept the emergency dosage."

"That's not getting rid of it."

"It saved your ass and it's saved mine many times before, you're not going to get rid of my emergency kit. It's not an option."

I frowned, my heart sliding helplessly into my stomach. The disappointment hit me like a train, and I turned away from you. I had thought it was gone, I thought you were getting better, I thought your cravings were getting easier, I thought you had finally learned to say no and that I didn't have to worry about it anymore because you had gotten rid of the shit. But, no. You had in fact kept the shit, and reached for the shit the first chance you had. It was only morphine, I reminded myself. It wasn't cocaine, and it wasn't anything worse. But it shattered the illusion I had, and it put that weight back on my shoulders. My chest felt heavy.

"Your turn," You said.

I glanced over at you, both irritated and hurt. For a split second, I considered shattering your illusion as well. But, no. That would be too much.

"We were friends." I answered. "Almost lovers. But it fell through. The warfront isn't a place for romance."

"_Almost_ lovers?"

"Yeah."

"How close?"

"Pretty far. But we've hardly spoken since I left. There's nothing there anymore." My phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I reached to pick it up.

"Well, that's anticlimatic."

I froze, staring at you, not sure quite how to react. I didn't say anything. The silence hung for a good while, and I could see the recognition on your face before I could feel the pain on mine. I turned down to my phone, and you propped yourself onto your elbows.

"That wasn't good, was it."

You studied me, and I focused on my screen.

_I wouldn't prefer meeting in person, but if that's the way that is necessary, I can arrange for it. I won't inconvenience you with a trip to where I am; I'll come to London. Where would you want us to meet? - _JS

"I was wrong." I murmured.

"Hmm?"

"He's coming to London."

"Is he planning on staying in the flat?" You asked.

"I don't know, I can offer." I texted a reply.

_That would be perfect. If you're planning on staying overnight, you're welcome to stay in our flat. It would probably be safer for you to stay with us than in a hotel. But from here, there are a variety of places we could go. Whatever makes you most comfortable. - _JW

"I should have been gentler," You said, now propped on one side, facing me.

"Forget about it, Sherlock." I sighed, closing my phone. "Just, stop bringing it up. And, I swear, if you say _anything_ in front of Sholto, it'll be _your_ skull on the fireplace."

"No need to get violent."

My eyes fell again, fogging over with thought. You stretched over and brushed your fingers against my chin, pulling my gaze back to yours.

* * *

_If you'd have me in your flat, I'd prefer it. Like you said, it'd be better for me not to be alone. Thank you for your hospitality. I can either arrive tomorrow evening or the morning of the 7th. Which would be better for you? - _JS

_It's no problem at all. You can stay with us as long as you'd like. As for arriving, the sooner the better. Will you be travelling by plane or by train? I can meet you, wherever you'll be coming in. - _JW

_Thank-you. I'll be flying in. Do you still live on Baker St.? If so, I can take the tube to your street without escort. If you'd like to meet me at the station, you can. If not, I can always make the stairs to your flat on my own. I won't stay long, though. I don't like to overstay my welcome. - _JS

_Believe me, it won't be possible to overstay your welcome. I can meet you at the tube stop. Looking forward to seeing you. - _JW

_Thank-you, John. - _JS

_Of course. - _JW

* * *

Deep rain fell in sheets, drenching my clothes and chilling me to the bone. I struggled to keep my eyes open, but the rain stung at my face, making the world around me blurry and distant. Everything was grey and dripping, water beginning to swirl around my feet, building into puddles and threatening to spill over from the drains. Clouds hung low, cutting off the street from the sky, suffocating it of light.

There was an innate feeling of fear, panic surging through my veins faster and stronger than blood. You were out there, somewhere, out of my reach, and I had to reach you. I tried to run, but my feet were weighed down by the weight of the water in my shoes. I waded, moving as fast as I could, but the water kept getting higher, swallowing my ankles, then my knees.

_Asphyxia. Asphyxia._

I fell forward, splashing and kicking and trying to swim with my arms. The water began eating away into the houses, pouring water through doors and windows. I tried to swim, but my clothes weighed me down, dragging me toward the asphalt below. It overwhelmed me, and I felt myself sinking, drowning, fighting the current, gasping for breath, gasping for-

You shook me awake, and the grey water melted into your blue eyes, pale skin, dark room, yellow windows. Your face was cold. My whole body was trembling. I reached out for you, gripping fistfuls of your hair and pulling you closer, my lungs painfully constricting. You settled down against my chest, wrapping your arms around me and cradling me against you as I fought for air.

"It's alright, John, you're alright." You whispered, gently petting my hair. "Breathe."

I let out a gentle, wavering moan, clenching my eyes shut. I started to come down, and as the adrenaline wore off my lungs stopped hurting quite so badly. I cursed myself with such force that you clenched me tighter. I almost started to cry.

"Shh, John, calm down." You pulled your head up, your eyes soft. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have let you sleep upset."

"Dammit," I heaved. "Why now, why _now_."

"Just calm down." You rested your forehead on mine. "Just rest."

* * *

Panic attacks at night are the worst kind, by far. Not only are they almost impossible to see coming, they leave me feeling drained even into the next morning. You let me sleep in as long as I needed to, and kept Jandi quiet in the other room, but you couldn't cater to me forever. Around ten, Lestrade called in and asked if you could lend a hand for one of his cases, just for a little while. Not long, he promised, an hour or two. You were hesitant to leave me, but I was feeling a bit better and decided to take your leaving as an excuse get myself out of bed.

You had put Jandi to work cleaning the books off your desk and organizing your shelves. He smiled at me as I came into the sitting room, his eye still a little purple around the nose but mostly clean beside that. "How are you feeling, Dr. Watson?" He asked, sliding a book into place.

"Bit shitty," I answered, stretching my shoulders. "But I'm fine, thank you. I see Sherlock gave you chores."

"Yes, sir. He said to get busy and not to bother you."

"How nice of him." I sighed, moving over to sit at the desk. "I'll help you out."

"You don't need to, I've got it. If you need to rest, you should do that instead."

"It's fine, I want to help." I grabbed a stack of papers and began sorting through them. Most of them were just old bills and case notes. "Did he make breakfast for you?"

"No, I made it myself."

"Oh, alright. I didn't know you knew how to cook."

He gave me a little smile. "I live with Macie. One of us had to learn."

I chuckled. "That's true."

"Do you cook for Sherlock?"

"Yeah, most of the time. He tends to forget to eat, so if I didn't cook, there would be no food in the house." I smiled.

He nodded, then glanced over at me. "I'm sorry, but can I ask a question?" He asked.

"Of course."

"Are you and Mr. Holmes married? I saw the ring on his hand, but I wasn't sure."

"We're engaged," I answered, showing him my own ring. "But no, we're not married."

"Okay. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, it's alright. I never actually explained to you about our relationship." I nodded. "Can I ask what your relationship to Macie is? Are the two of you together?"

"No, we're only flatmates," He said. "I translate for her on her trips, and she pays me in lodging."

"Oh, alright, that sounds like a nice arrangement."

"It is. I enjoy living with her." He put a few more books on the shelf.

"Do the two of you have a lot of friends within the Red Cross?" I asked.

"Yes, a few. We travel a lot to the same villages, so we're able to meet the children and the families there and offer aid to them. Some of the nurses choose to rotate away from the country, but Macie enjoys it there the most, and I'm not able to translate for her in other areas. We have lots of friends."

"Good, good. And what do the two of you do when you're not on-duty?"

"Not too much. Macie likes to garden, and she spends quite a lot of time writing, of course."

"Oh, I should've figured."

He nodded, a little grin growing on his face. "Her favorite room of the house is the sunroom. She's built it into her office, with a desk and lots of shelves, looking out into the lawn and the garden. She has all her journals, from her childhood to the war to the Red Cross, all stored away there. She can sit for hours, listening to her music on the disc player and writing until her hands are red and sore."

I smiled. Macie had always loved writing, even during the war, and had kept detailed journals with her wherever she went. The thought of her, sitting in a warm sunroom surrounded by her passion, was a pleasant one.

"And what about you?" I asked. "What do you like to do?"

He glanced at me - just a short glance, but enough for me to catch.

"Not much," He admitted. "I ride bicycles and read English books. Sometimes I help in the lawn, but not often. I always uproot her herbs."

He focused an unusual amount on the shelves, removing and rearranging books, even if they were in the correct order. I patted a pile of papers into order, watching him, his sudden attitude change catching my interest.

"Well, you know, Jandi," I said, "We were awfully worried about you the other night."

"I'm sorry."

"Sherlock was a bit angry that you wouldn't tell us where you were going."

Jandi turned back to the desk to pick up more books and looked me in the eye. Right then, he didn't look like a nervous kid from Wales. He looked like a lion, with dark fire in his eyes, his brow furrowed and strong. He didn't look angry, but he looked determined, and definitely in no mood to defend himself or his actions.

"I came back," He said, plainly. "Don't worry about the rest."

"We want to make sure you're not in danger." I continued, a little quieter.

"I am in danger." He replied. "And so are you."

* * *

I'm waking up to ash and dust, I wipe my brow and I review my rust.

Follow for the next updates.


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry for tripping up on the update schedule. I think I'm going to start updating Monday to Friday and taking Saturday and Sunday off so that I can avoid hiccups like that. It might take me a little bit longer to finish but I don't want to get burned out too fast. Just bear with me.

Note I literally suck at in-text character introductions and I just realized it in writing this chapter. That's why it took me this long. So if you have any advice on how to improve this chapter it would be hugely appreciated.

Thank-you, and enjoy.

* * *

The tube station was bustling with people, pressing in on all sides, but I was too excited to worry about them. My heart felt tight and heavy, beating painfully against my ribs while my eyes searched through the crowd. Sholto was due at any moment now from Heathrow, and I wasn't sure how he would be after travelling. I had been worried about how he would react if someone were to recognize him, but I had to keep reminding myself that he was a big kid, and if he didn't think he could handle it, he wouldn't have come. He would be fine. I would be fine.

You stood with me, with your coat pulled tight around you and your head held high. Although you had never seen Sholto before, I was sure you would recognize him when you saw him. (Scars, I told you. Look for scars.) In complete contrast to me, you stood still and focused, while I jittered around and fussed with my jacket to keep my hands busy.

"It's just a visit," You stated, flatly. "You don't have to get so worked up."

I ignored you. "I hope he's alright. I hope he came in fine. I'm not sure how he is about planes. Or the tube."

You glanced down at me. I tried to calm myself down so that you wouldn't get suspicious, but when I stopped fidgeting the shaking in my hands got pretty obvious, and that was even more embarrassing. You tsked, taking a hand out of your coat pocket and running it along the back of my shoulders.

"Something bothering you?" You asked, barely above the noise.

"Not sure."

"Do you need to sit down?"

"No, my leg is fine."

"You're shaking."

"I've _noticed_." I laughed, shuffling my feet and staring at the floor. "Damn, I'm such a mess. You'd think I'd be more collected than this, behave like an actual adult, but _no_, of course not. I'm going to tremble and jump around because I'm a three year old girl apparently and there's no better way I can contain myself."

"Is is the crowd?"

"Of course it's the fucking crowd. Yes. Crowd. Oh, fuck."

I teetered on my feet, and you turned to steady me. My lungs had started to buckle, and I immediately put my head against your shoulder, taking a deep breath of your cologne and struggling to steady myself. You pulled me toward the benches and sat me down, kneeling in front of me and keeping my head up. Your thumb ran gently against my cheek.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I whispered, setting my hands against your chest. People were starting to gawk at us, which made me feel even stupider. I let my head hang, blocking out the people and imagining that you and I were alone, in a quiet room, safe and sound. I started to feel less dizzy.

"We should've waited at the flat," You murmured.

"No." I bit my cheek. "I'll be fine. I'm a grown man."

"John."

I took a deep breath, willing my lungs to keep working and my head to stay clear. Your eyes were inches from mine, sparkling brightly with worry, but I was afraid that if I met them you would see right through me. I reached out and grasped your hand, letting my eyes slide open to watch as the tube carriages pulled into the station, its passengers milling in and out, oblivious of us.

"I don't want him to see me like this," I said, sadly. "What a humiliating way to meet. 'Hi, John, how long's it been, six, seven years? Haven't changed much, have you?' "

You smiled, and I smiled back, my chest relaxing a little. I leaned forward to press my forehead against yours, taking a few more breaths through my nose. I was going to be fine. I wasn't going to freak out. I focused on you, the texture of your skin. You would be with me the whole time. There was nothing to be afraid of.

And, really, there wasn't. I wasn't sure why I was so damn scared. I was usually fine with crowds, fine with people. What was the problem with me today? Was it Sholto? I was nervous, yes, but _this_ nervous? Was I nervous about how you would treat him? Or about how he would treat you? Or was it just a bad day? I had no idea, and it was frustrating. I hated being unable to control my own body. I hated feeling vulnerable and small.

You straightened up, standing by my side with your hand on my back. "We'll wait here until he comes."

"Fine," I grunted.

There on the bench, it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction, but I think that being off my feet with your hand on my shoulder helped bottle the butterflies a bit. You kept watching the carriages, on the look-out for scars. Scars. Scars. You found him within five minutes, identifying him as soon as he stepped off the tube.

"1.91 meters, pale skin, scarring over the left side of the face, further down the arm, as I can tell." You said, your neck stretching for a better look. "Leg, too. Approximately forty years. Square jaw, straight chin, small eyes."

"Sounds like him." I pulled myself up and moved toward the carriage, you following closely behind. I spotted him from several yards away.

It was incredible. A cold sensation swept across me as I recognized him. He was taller than I'd remembered, a little taller than you, with a tough leather jacket and a dark brown beret, both dark with rain. He almost didn't look like the same Sholto because he wasn't in full dress. He still hadn't seen me, but began walking in our direction, pulling with him a dark suitcase as his eyes scanned through the people.

He was too far away to hear, but as he found me, his face went sweet. We moved toward him.

"Sholto," I called, unable to control my smile. As we reached each other, I saluted him, and he released the handle of his case to return it.

"Hello, Watson." His smile was small and thin. "It's good to see you again."

I let my arm fall to my side again as you came to stand beside me. Your shoulders were tight and your expression was guarded. No doubt you were deducing all types of things about Sholto, but I interrupted your train of thought so I could make a formal introduction. "Sholto, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Major James Sholto."

He extended his hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Same to you, sir." You said.

"Do you need me to take your bag?" I asked, motioning toward Sholto's case.

"Oh, no, I'm alright. I've gotten it this far, I can finish the job." He gripped the handle again. "Have you been waiting long?"

"No, not too long." I assured. "Let's head up to the flat. Jandi's excited to see you."

He nodded, and we turned toward the stairs.

* * *

Both you and I noticed the way he moved. His suitcase was held firmly in his right hand, with his left hanging taut close to his side, his left leg seeming to put up a bit of a fight itself as he walked. He didn't look like he was in pain, but his motion was definitely restricted regardless. The scars across his face and neck also caught me a bit off-guard. He had told me that he had been wounded by the grenades, but I hadn't really envisioned it quite to his extent. Half of his left eyebrow had been seared away, along with most of the skin on that side, shriveling his ear and thinning his hair. But his sea-glass eyes still shone bright and clear, bringing back memories of sun-scorched sand and cold nights full of stars.

He made it up the steps to the flat without much trouble, and was greeted at the door by an eager Jahandar. He held the door open for him and brought him in, his eyes blooming with happiness. "Hello, Major," He said, saluting. "It's good to see you, sir."

"And you, too, Jandi." Sholto released a breath and set his case in the sitting room. "John, where should I...?"

"Oh, I can take that upstairs for you." I reached for the case, but you took hold of it first.

"I've got it," You said, and promptly disappeared upstairs.

Sholto didn't seem to mind. He shook Jandi's hand, then took a moment to look around the flat. "You have a very nice home," He told me.

"Thank-you, it's not usually this clean." I fidgeted. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Thank-you." He took a seat on the sofa, joined shortly by Jandi. I took the seat from the desk and turned it to face them, and as I sat, Sholto started to work off his jacket.

"I'm glad you could make the trip," Jandi said, folding his legs under himself. "I've been trying to contact you for some time."

"That's what John told me." He nodded. "I've heard about Macie, too. How have you been faring?"

"I've been alright."

"It looks like you've gotten a little bruise."

Jandi gently touched the part of his eye that was still discolored and nodded. "He was lost on the street yesterday evening, got himself a bit roughed up," I told him. He looked at me, and I tried my best to give him a hint that it hadn't exactly been an easy topic of discussion. I think he got the message, but I realized then how rusty our mental connection had actually gotten.

"I'm glad you're with John now," He said.

"I am, as well. He's been very hospitable to me." Jandi tipped his head.

"Anything for old friends," I smiled. "What about you, Sholto? How have you been in the last year?"

"I've been getting by."

"That's good. Where have you been living?"

"I own an estate, out in the middle of nowhere." He said. "You wouldn't know it."

I nodded, glancing over as you came back down the stairs, moving slower than usual and coming to rest in your armchair. It looked like you had strained yourself a little too much and were now suffering for it. All three of us saw it.

"Are you alright?" Sholto asked.

"Yes, just a stab wound." You answered.

"Stab?" He glanced at Jandi. "They aren't from the same, are they?"

"No, they're not." You said.

"Sherlock does a bit of police work, recently he's gotten himself into some trouble." I explained. "He'll be fine, though."

"Last I heard he was a detective," Sholto said.

"Well, yes. Consulting detective." You paused, then turned to him. "How did you...?"

"I've read John's blog. Yours, too. I thought it was very interesting."

"Oh?" You preened your metaphorical feathers. "I'm glad."

"All your cases have been very interesting," He said, going back to me. "It's something better than luck that Jandi turned to you for help. You're much more qualified than I am to help him; more experienced, I guess I should say."

I nodded, adjusting myself in my seat with a little chuckle. "You read my blog?"

He studied me. "I thought I told you that."

"You may have mentioned it, I just, I guess I forgot."

"I read it off-and-on. By the way, congratulations on your engagement."

"Oh, thank-you." I smiled.

"Do you live in the country, Major?" You asked.

He nodded, stretching out his leg. "Please, call me Sholto. Or James, if you prefer."

"Sholto." You continued. "Are you interested in crime, at all?"

"It's interesting to read up on," He admitted. "I enjoy things like crime shows and the like. But I could never do what the two of you do. It's very admirable."

You nodded, taking the compliment wholeheartedly. "How long did you serve in Afghanistan?"

"In all, nine years and eight months."

"That's impressive. John said that the two of you were stationed together."

"Yes, for a long while. We were both assigned to the Fifth. John's stitched up plenty of my own wounds in his day."

I chuckled.

"How were the two of you acquainted?" He asked you, changing the subject.

"We met through friends," You answered. "We were each looking for a flatmate."

"That's very nice," James nodded. "I'm glad that worked out for the two of you."

"Thank-you." You said. "Do you live alone?"

I shot you a look, but Sholto let it slide.

"I have a small personal staff, but with the exception of them, yes. I live alone."

"And how do you enjoy that?"

"It's pleasant, I enjoy it very much." He answered. "It's very quiet. Much quieter than the city. I can appreciate it."

I nodded. He turned his head toward me again, letting his eyes waver a moment over mine, glistening with the same soft recognition that I was feeling. It was so strange, being in his presence again, nothing short of electrifying. I felt a little sheepish, finding so much enjoyment with just sitting in the same room as him, but I also felt a small cold sensation in my stomach, almost haunting me. His face reminded me of the desert, and of the memories gunfire and blood which were tangled up with his. In a way, it was bittersweet. I wondered if the sight of me reminded him of the same.

* * *

While you went in to rest, I helped Sholto settle in to the bedroom upstairs, showing him how the shower and the alarms worked, then leaving him to his own comfort. He seemed tired and behaved very passively, examining the room with a distant sort of gaze - not disappointed, just closed off. He didn't talk much, only thanked me and wished me good-night. I didn't bother him any further.

Jandi was watching more crap telly when I came back down, chewing on some kind of jerky he had found in the cabinet while you leaned into a kitchen chair. The pain in your side combined with the side-effects of the medicine was making you a little bit nauseous, and so I helped you move into the bedroom and smeared a damp cloth over your forehead.

"I like him," You drawled.

I hesitated, watching you closely. Your eyes were shut and your lips were a bit red, but you peeked at me though one eye.

"You're ridiculous," You said.

"What?" I remarked. "I didn't say anything.

Both your eyes opened, moving from my face to my jaw to my neck, reaching our your hand to brush against my collarbone, your fingers spreading across my chest.

"We'll get along." You said. "Sholto and I. We'll get by."

"I hope so." I sat down beside your waist.

You gently traced my cheek. "We'll finish Jahandar's case quickly. Then you can relax."

I nodded, bending over you until my head was just a few inches above yours. "But you relax, first."

"Yes, doctor." Your fingers gently brushed my lips, and I rested my hand against your heart.

* * *

Everything around me was dark. I was submerged, my feet anchored down into the mud, lungs filling slowly with water. I could see the moon sparkling somewhere far above me, sending down streams of white light, illuminating the tall seaweed and the large creatures around me, swimming in circles around me, their fins slipping silently through the water, jaws open and teeth exposed.

Pain ripped through my shoulder, but my cries were muffled by the depth. Blood seeped through my wounds in little funnels of red, seeping through the scars on my shoulders. I pressed my hand against the hole, but the blood escaped through my fingers and floated up toward the surface, driving my assailants mad. They flicked their tails, teeth only growing larger and whiter in the light, closing in their circles and coming ever closer as my lungs began to close.

Cold fear slipped down my spine as I watched them, too terrified to move. Their grey bodies, slippery and slimy, glided across my skin, rubbing against my arms and breathing up the taste of my blood, their eyes changing color as they grew bigger, the color of sea-glass in the fading light of the moon.

* * *

Yeah, my mama she told me don't worry about your size, she says boys like a little more reviews to hold at night.

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	9. Chapter 9

I actually got this done hell yeah I'm so happy

Enjoy!

* * *

The first time I met Sholto was in my first year in Afghanistan, when the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers were still stationed in Camp Bastion. It had been a long day in the infirmary; we had gotten some battalions in from the front lines that were beaten up pretty badly. There had been at least three amputations, two deaths, and endless lacerations needing stitches, sometimes even several on the same man. Macie Lowdry and I had been working non-stop since four A.M., and there were still plenty to work through.

Most of the cadets waiting in the halls were hunched over, groaning, complaining, laying down, fighting over turns, praying, or something in-between all those, but there was one man who sat on the floor with his hand clutched closely to his stomach. He had been in the hall for several hours now, always giving his turns up to other cadets and never making a fuss about it. Whenever I would come for my next man I would spot him, and once or twice I would ask him if he needed attention, but he never wanted me to help. I figured him one of those hero-types and left him alone.

By ten there were only three men left in the hall. Two of them had already been examined and now were only waiting for Mace to give them their stitches. The third was the obstinate cadet. I stripped off my last pair of gloves while I approached him.

"I can take you now, sir, there's no one else for you to wait for," I told him.

"You can give Jim his stitches." He replied. "I can stay a few more minutes."

"The other nurse can give him his stitches. I can take you now."

The cadet looked up at me. "I'm alright. You can take Jim."

"I've already been seen, sir," Another cadet (presumably Jim) put in. "Let the doctor see you."

"There are still more." He leaned his head back.

"Please, sir." Insisted the cadet. "Everyone else's been seen."

I squatted down to be at eye-level with the man and gave him a look-over. He was a bit pale, his eyes focused on the wall behind me, but when I pulled out my flashlight he looked at me. His eyes responded, but they responded a little too slowly for my taste.

"Follow the light," I said, moving the flashlight back and forth.

He sighed, but obeyed.

"Is there a reason you're refusing to be seen, sir?" I asked.

"There's other boys who have it worse than I do. I've just got a scratch. They should be seen first." He answered.

"In all respect, you should let us decide who needs to be seen first. You don't need to worry about anyone else."

He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were sharp. "They're my men."

I stopped, letting my flashlight fall to my knee. He and I held a gaze, and Jim cleared his throat. "He's our captain, sir."

"I apologize, Captain. But, I have to ask, where is your uniform?"

He ran his tongue across his lips. "I gave it to another officer. He'd lost a lot of blood."

"Lieutenant Farmer?" I asked.

His face lit up. "Have you seen him?"

"Yes, I worked on him."

"How is he?"

I bit my cheek. "We couldn't save him, sir. Seven o' nine."

He went cold. "Oh."

I stood up, allowing him a few moments to process, then put my flashlight in my pocket and looking down at him. "Well, sir, you've done all you can for these two. Will you please come back with me now?"

The captain glanced at the two cadets, who were now watching him, and then put his good hand out. "Help me up."

We walked back into the nursing room, where one heavily-burned man was asleep on a cot. The captain glanced at him as he eased himself onto the second bed, his hand still plastered over his stomach. I was half-nervous about what I would find. He had been sitting in the hall for hours with who-knows-how-bad a wound, and I could only imagine all the dried blood in his shirt and his sleeve.

I had him lay on his back, then I gently began working his arm from his stomach. He closed his eyes tightly and complied, though I noticed his breath catch as I pulled it away. Dry blood was caked in layers on the abdomen of his sweat-stained shirt. I began unbuttoning it, starting from the collar and working down, being careful not to move the fabric too much. But the shirt was sticking to the wound and, thanks to the pressure from his arm, it had gotten twisted deep into the wound. I knew I would have to cut it out, and I also knew that it would not be a particularly good experience for the young captain.

"You really should have seen me earlier," I told him. "At least to bandage it. A dirty shirt is not a bandage."

"It's alright," He said, gritting his teeth.

As I worked I noticed that he was very muscular and quite a bit larger than me; I had seen the height difference between us when he first stood, but even while he was laying down I felt slightly measely compared to him. My scissors snipped easily through his shirt, letting his dirty pale skin get some exposure. His chest was a shade lighter than the rest of him, but that's how it was with all of us by now. I cut around the wound, careful not to upset it more than I had to, and pulled the pieces away separately. His hands were starting to bunch the sheets underneath him.

"Do you need me to get you some pain-relief, captain?"

"No, I'm fine." He hissed.

"Are you sure? It wouldn't be a problem."

"I'm fine."

I pursed my lips, but didn't bother continuing to argue with him. I rolled up a cloth and ran it under the warm water at the tap, then placing it over the wound to try to coax some of the cloth out of the wound without having to rip it out. The captain furrowed his eyebrows, but didn't make a sound, and neither did I.

I left him to gather more supplies, but watched him out of the corner of my eye. He looked two steps from miserable, staring up at the ceiling with a vacant express, obviously distraught with the news of the fate of his cadet. I felt sorry for him, and as I moved back to him I said, "You really care about your men, don't you?"

"I do."

"That's honorable of you."

"Thank you."

I nodded, but didn't feel quite satisfied with that. "It's best not to blame yourself about Farmer."

He glanced at me. "And why is that?"

"There couldn't have been much you could have done."

I bent over him, beginning to wriggle the cloth from the wound, but paused when he groaned. Only a corner of it was coming out, but it was bringing with it a chunk of dried blood, which was definitely painful for him. I continued to pull, disregarding his murmured swearing, and with the help of the water and the fresh blood, got everything except a few threads out from the cut. The long gash was now fully exposed, crusted with old blood and beginning to fill with new.

"Is it bad?" He asked, his teeth gritted together.

"It's not horrible." I took my tweezers and began pulling for the threads. "Do you know how you got this?"

"Gunshot grazed me," He answered.

"You were lucky it missed."

His eyes were sad. "I guess I was."

I looked at him, setting my tweezers to the side. "What's your name?"

"James Sholto." He looked back at me. "Yours?"

"John Watson. I would shake your hand, but I think I'll save that for later."

"I'd appreciate it."

I chuckled and finished cleaning out the dried blood from the wound. It was now clean and bright red with fresh blood, and although it was a little jagged on the edge from where the cloth had pulled it open, it looked like it wouldn't be too much to worry about. I reached for my needle and stitching thread. "I'll just stitch this and bandage it. You'll have to come back tomorrow morning and get it checked. There's no getting out of it this time, either. Come in by nine o'clock or I'll come find you myself, alright?"

"Alright."

I paused to glance at him. "You should cheer up a little, captain."

To that he responded with anger. His brow curved defensively. "Why in the world should I? I've lost a man. Seven more are in the infirmary. Explain to me exactly why I should 'cheer up'. Why I have the _right_ to 'cheer up'."

"You sat out there for hours, letting men with cuts and bruises take your turns when you've got a gunshot wound across your stomach. I know you're upset, and it's alright for people to be upset. You're not just a captain, you're a man who geniunely cares about your cadets. But grieve for the dead, but not for the living."

"I've lost a man, doctor."

"Yes, and you saved eleven more. If that isn't a right to be glad, there is no right at all."

He went quiet, but it wasn't out of conviction. I tried to stitch up the wound as quickly as I could and put a few layers over it, carefully helping him to sit upright. His jaw was clenched to try to hide the pain, but it wasn't hard for me to see. I kept my eyes away to give him a little privacy, wrapping the gauze tightly around his torso, and the both of us were left sort of awkwardly avoiding each other's eyes for a few minutes. The buzzing tension between us faded a little by the time I was finished, and so when I left him to start on the med report, he cleared his throat to speak.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson."

I looked up at him. His eyes were soft now; not resistant, not frustrated. He looked broken and appreciative, and I gave him a sympathetic smile.

"You're welcome, Captain Sholto."

* * *

By the morning, you were feeling much better. The medicine had made it easier for you to sleep and by the time you had your morning dose and eaten a yogurt you were feeling up to walking around. Sholto and Jandi were up early, as I expected, and you made coffee for the three of you while I caught a little more sleep. I had woken up in a panic again, and so I tried to relax in bed as long as I could without feeling rude, to pay myself a little favor. Sholto and I were supposed to go out today to talk about the case, and I didn't want to make him wait too much longer.

You had been wanting to go with us, but around ten Greg called you and asked if you could come in. He had struck a rich vein in their drug-bust case and wanted you to come in and help him glean. At first I argued against it, but you were feeling much better, it would only be a few hours, and you explicitly expressed that you wouldn't be leaving New Scotland Yard, so I complied with Greg's wishes. You dashed out without so much of a good-bye to Sholto or Jandi, but I (ruefully) explained that you were usually brash like that.

Sholto seemed slightly more comfortable that morning, as well. A good night's sleep probably did him well, and he was much more alert. Having him in the flat still made me feel a little awkward, though, and I'm sure I made a fool out of myself running into tables and dropping dishes, but he didn't look like he minded much. Jandi, on the other hand, had fun laughing at me, and I guess it helped to lighten the mood.

We decided to go out for brunch at eleven-thirty, leaning toward one of the smaller cafés off of Hyde Park. We gave Jandi the option to go with us, but he declined it; after what had happened last time, he wasn't exactly jumping at the opportunity. But while Sholto went upstairs to get his jacket, I pulled Jandi to the side to talk to him.

"Please don't leave the flat again, alright?" I said. "I know I can't tell you what to do, but it's not safe out there, not right now. You need to either stay with us or stay here."

"Alright, Dr. Watson." He nodded.

I gave him a firm pat on the shoulder and headed toward the door.

Outside, it was drizzling just a little. I glanced up at the sky, examining the rolling clouds with squinted eyes and stuffing my hands into my pockets. "Well, I thought we would walk, but maybe it would be best to cab..." I turned to Sholto, still standing in the doorway and looking out at the rain. "Which would you prefer?"

"Walking would be nice," He said. "A little rain won't hurt anyone."

I nodded and fetched our umbrellas.

We walked toward Hyde, staying near each other but far enough so that the tips of our umbrellas didn't brush. There weren't too many people out because of the rain, and for that I was glad, although I was still a bit nervous about the passing cars and cabs, which were known to spray water in all directions as they came.

"Be careful of the street, or you might find yourself drenched," I cautioned.

Sholto looked down at me, his view partially obstructed by the umbrella. "Alright, I will."

I gave him a little smile, and he paused.

"You know, it isn't raining too hard. Are two umbrellas really necessary? Mine is wide enough for the two of us. We could just share."

"That would probably be smarter." I closed up my umbrella and let it hang from my arm, stepping slightly closer to Sholto. "Thank-you."

"No problem. Does it often rain like this here?"

"Eh, not really. The spring is normally fairly tame, we just seem to be getting one of those nasty spring storms. What about you?"

"It's been raining like hell the last month or so where I am. I thought I would be getting away from it, but it seems like it's following me now."

I chuckled. "It does seem like it."

He nodded.

"I remember asking earlier where you were living, but I don't think you answered me."

"No, I didn't. I prefer not to give out my address in a group setting - or at all, necessarily." He explained. "But, of course, I know I can trust you to be smart. I own a house in Lancashire, just outside Clitheroe."

"Oh, alright. I know where Lancashire is."

"It's a beautiful country out there. Good for walking and driving."

"That sounds lovely."

Sholto sighed through his nose. The rain was beginning to wet the fabric of his jacket, but he didn't seem to mind. We crossed the street quickly, stepping around puddles and other pedestrians. I purposefully slowed myself down to remain at Sholto's pace. Not that he was being sluggish, but he was just a bit slower than I was, and I didn't want to make him uncomfortable about it. For a split second I considered that this was exactly what you had to do for me, and I laughed a little. Luckily, I wasn't having a bad leg day, and although I had my cane I wasn't relying on it too heavily and it wasn't too burdensome. Sholto didn't even mention it.

"Well, it seems like you're going a lot better."

He looked down at me. "I would say I am."

"I'm glad."

"You look well, yourself. It seems that civilian life suits you well."

I shrugged. "I still need a taste of excitement every now-and-then. But in this line of work, that's not difficult."

Sholto nodded.

"And since I mentioned work, do you want to start discussing things now or wait until we've reached the café?"

"Starting now would be appropriate." He said. "What do you want to know."

"Well, everything I can, really. But let's start with Macie. How much do you know about where she went and what she did?"

"I know a bit." He fussed with the handle of the umbrella. "Since the two of you were under my authority, I made sure to keep tabs on her visits, whenever she went in or out, and made it clear that she was required to let me know if anything occurred out there that could cause harm to our security or her security. She was pretty good about letting me know about stuff that had happened. Her main trips were just into Khales, the closest town, but she was smart and she was gentle. I think that part of it was the fact she was a woman, too. If it had been you, you might have not had the success she had with the villagers. But they were open to her."

"All of them?"

"Not all, of course, but most. There were some, mostly men, who were hostile to her, and some who wanted to either convert her or throw her out. Thankfully, none of those situations turned into anything too serious." Sholto thought a moment, his eyes studying the ground. "Once, there was a man who bit her on the arm and broke the skin, left her all bruised up above the wrist. That was right after you were deported, I think. It wasn't too big a deal at the time, but I remember her telling me about how hard it was to write with a bruised wrist."

"Oh, did she write down the things that she saw?"

"Yes, she did. That was part of the deal, too - she would write down everything she could into those little journals, and if ever I needed them, I had the authority between the two of us to take them and to read through them. She promied me that she wouldn't hide anything from me. It was easy to trust her."

"Of course."

"I know that she brought Jandi along with her on plenty of her trips, as a translator. Did you get anything from him?"

"He told us about her latest trip." I answered. "She works with the Red Cross now, and goes into Afghanistan pretty often, but he said that this time she met someone she recognized. I think his name was Tamim."

"I don't remember hearing about a Tamim," He admitted.

"Jandi didn't either. But Macie told him that his father was involved with the underground. She was pretty scared of him."

"If the father was involved, it's not a far stretch to assume the son was involved, as well."

"That's what I thought." I pulled my jacket. "But I'm hoping that we can just avoid that path. I don't want to get involved with any drug cartels or Taliban shootings. I think we've had enough of dealing with those already."

"I agree."

As we approached Portman Square, a car coming from the right began pulling into the cross, its driver clearly not paying enough attention. An oncoming car swerved, blaring its horn forcefully, and the oblivious car responded with a shrill beep back. I jumped a little, startled by the noise, but Sholto reflexively grabbed me and pulled me away from the road with more force than I thought was necessary. If he weren't gripping so tightly to my arm, I might've been knocked off my feet.

"Jesus Christ," I remarked, laughing a little. "That scared me."

Sholto didn't answer at first, and I realized that he was coming out of fight-or-flight much slower than normal. I let him get his bearings, standing with his eyes glued onto the roadway and the passing cars until his muscles relaxed again and his brain was able to re-establish contact. He glanced at me apologetically, and I tried not to look too dispirited. PTSD was an uphill battle, after all, and I should know that better than most. But as he began walking again, trying his best to cover up his withered confidence, my own began to wilt.

* * *

Something's telling me to leave but I won't, 'cause I'm damned if I do ya, reviewed if I don't.

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	10. Chapter 10

Hot damn this chapter's long. But I guess you guys deserve that for sticking around so long, eh?

I'm back! And I'll try my best to stick to the new schedule. (If you're confused, I explained it on my profile.)

Enjoy.

* * *

After a while of "brunching" Sholto seemed to open up a little. His cold exterior had begun to crack, and it became progressively easier for me to hold a conversation with him. It was nice; at least, I considered it nice. I wasn't quite sure how he felt about it.

We rose from our café seating to wander the park, our stomachs buzzing with tea and chatter. "Well, it's a good thing the weather's looking up, hm?" I mentioned.

He nodded and looked past the trees into the sky. It was still a little grey and hazy, but little bursts of blue were coming through like sprouts of grass, and the outer folds of the clouds were fading into white. "Still looks gloomy to me," He decided.

"I guess if you're coming from the country," I chuckled.

Sholto shrugged, titling his head a little to my direction. "Do you like it here, in London?"

"I'd say I do," I nodded. "Much prefer it to stuffy villages or campus towns."

"Stuffy?"

"I consider them stuffy." I tapped the handle of my limp umbrella. "I could spend a few days in a little town and enjoy it, but any more than that and I'd go stir-crazy. All those hot summers in Wales left their scars, if you'd believe."

He nodded. "It surprises me that you adjusted so well to Afghanistan, then."

"Eh. I don't think anyone could really call themselves well-adjusted."

"That's not what I mean. You seemed satisfied in the camp, even though it was small."

"Well, yeah, when you were around to see it."

"Why would that matter?"

"You kept me entertained."

He laughed this time, his lips snaking up into a smile, and I couldn't help but fall into it as well.

"Ristol was hellish, though," I admitted. "When there was action, it was a damn flood of it, sometimes more than we could handle. But any other times, it was just a desert. Empty, hot, and irritating."

"That was the whole war, I think."

"Yeah, I guess so."

We nodded to ourselves, continuing down the path. I could feel my phone buzz from one of my pockets, but when I glanced at the screen, it was just a text from Greg. I decided to ignore it for the time being and slipped it back into my coat, but James noticed it out of the corner of his eye. "Was that Sherlock? Does he want us back?"

"No, it wasn't him. But if you're ready to go back, we can go."

"I think I've had enough walking for one afternoon," He said, and gently touched his side. "I'm starting to feel a little sore."

"We can get a cab if it's bothering you," I offered.

"I've made it this far, I can make it back." He answered, and turned around.

"Alright." My phone buzzed again, and irritably I grabbed at it. Greg again. I clicked it off.

"I saw you with a cane the other day, at the station," Sholto said. "But there's no cane today. Is there a reason for that?"

"Oh." I pursed my lips. "Well, it sort of fluctuates."

"I see. Does it have to do with the weather?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

"It's... not an actual wound, per say." I admitted.

He glanced down at me, but tried not to sound too scrutinizing. "I had considered that. I didn't remember you taking a leg wound, but I assumed I missed it."

"You didn't miss anything." I reached to gently touch my thigh, which in response stung a little. "It's psychosomatic."

"Psychosomatic?"

"It has to do with mental disorders."

He looked back toward the path. "Oh."

"When I'm stressed, my mind can't always process it correctly, and so it presents itself as pain. Namely pain in my leg, but there can be other things, too. If my stress levels are down, though, it doesn't bother me as much." I motioned. "Like now."

"In the tube station, then," He said, "You were stressed."

"Well, it didn't really have to do with the station." I glanced away sheepishly. "I'm always stressed."

Sholto nodded his head, but I could tell he still had questions.

My phone continued to buzz frantically, now in long intervals rather than little beeps. I grumbled, briefly apologized, and pulled it from my pocket. Greg was _calling_ now? Jesus Christ. I swiped the screen to answer and held it to my ear, but he must've cancelled the call before I was able to answer, so the phone went blank. I pulled it away with a glare, but I saw that he had already tried to call once before.

"Is something wrong?" Sholto asked.

"I don't know, it's just Greg. Although, if he's with Sher-" My phone lit up again with another call, still from Greg. I answered it and held it to my head, making eye contact with Sholto. "Hello?"

"I didn't get you a bloody phone for you to ignore my calls." You shouted, making me cringe. Your voice sounded scratchy. "I've been texting you for fifteen minutes, dammit."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was you. What happened to _your_ phone?"

"Irrelevant. You need to get back to the flat, right now. It's important."

"How important."

"Extremely."

"What's wrong? Is it Jandi?"

"Yes."

I closed my eyes, taking a sharp breath. "Is he gone?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sholto and I are still in Hyde, if we take the back road maybe we could-"

"No. Take a cab, come straight to the flat, make no other stops. I want you here, right now."

"Why?"

"You need to see it."

The line went dead.

* * *

We took the first cab we could catch. "I really hoped Jandi wouldn't run again," I sighed. "But I can't really say I'm surprised. It was a risk leaving him alone; I thought that maybe since Mrs. Hudson was home he would try to behave himself. Evidently I was wrong."

"He's done this before?"

"Yeah, once, the other night. We were about scared shitless. We found him in Allsop Plaza; he was a bit bruised up but he was fine. We'll probably start looking there and branch out. If Greg is with Sherlock, it shouldn't be too difficult."

Sure enough, as we approached the flat I recognized Greg's black police cruiser idling outside the door. We climbed out of the cab, and as I we stepped up onto the curb, Sholto got a guarded look about him. The door was ajar, giving me a little inkling of dread. I chose to follow James toward the flat, investigating carefully.

You suddenly burst through the door, your coat flapping behind you, almost startling me. "Hold that cab!" You called, rushing toward the car. Sholto reflexively grabbed my arm and pushed me behind himself, but you hardly noticed. You flew past us and shoved yourself onto the door of the cab, knocking against the window.

Greg came out also, still wrapped in his coat, too. Obviously you hadn't been here for long. He had a grim look on his face. "John."

"What's going on, Greg? Why are you here?" I asked. Sholto released my arm, and I massaged the grooves from his fingers out of my skin.

"I came to drop off Sherlock and we found the door open." He explained. "Mrs. Hudson was near hysterical."

"Mrs. Hudson?" My face heated up. "What did he do to her?"

"I don't think he did anything." He glanced briefly at Sholto, then motioned toward the door. "Come up and see."

We followed him through the door and up the stairs, ignoring Gladstones chirps from the back room. Before we even made it through the flat hall, we saw the books scattered along the floor, their pages loose and some of them torn, floating around on the breeze. My heart dropped into my stomach as I continued into the flat, seeing all the bookshelves that Jandi and I had just organized stripped to the boards. Books were thrown around the room, leaving behind all sorts of new marks on the walls. Broken glass and plastic littered the ground. Even the wallpaper suffered, peeled off in random places. I heard Sholto grumble behind me.

"Was this Jandi?" He asked, stepping over the shards of a broken table.

"We have no idea." Greg admitted. "Mrs. Hudson?"

She came around the corner from the kitchen, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. "Oh, John," She blubbered. "I'm so sorry, John."

I let out a breath of relief when I saw her. I stepped forward and ran my hands along her quivering shoulders. "Jesus. What happened, Mrs. Hudson?"

"There was a call at the door, not long after you left." She said, still sniffling. "I answered it, of course, but it was this woman I'd never seen. She stepped inside before I could stop her, and she asked to see if you were home. I said no, you weren't, but I could phone you - she wouldn't have that. She went upstairs to talk to Jandi; very rude, she didn't even ask. But she locked the door to your flat, and I didn't hear anything from there for at least half an hour. I tried calling Sherlock, but the lines were dead. In my flat and in the café, too. She cut them."

"Cut them?" Sholto repeated.

"Yes... I was horrified, John. Such a scary woman. I was afraid she'd hurt him, so I stayed downstairs and listened. I didn't hear much, just a bit of stepping and mumbles, like normal. A bit of shouting, but I couldn't make it out. Then she stormed out, pulling Jandi along like a dog."

"Speaking of dogs,"

"Gladstone was in my flat the whole time. He had come down to growl at the door before she came inside," She said. "Snarling at it, the poor thing, so I put him in the kitchen while I answered."

I let go of her, my eyes wandering onto the walls while I thought. "Jesus."

"That isn't all, John." You said, coming in behind us. "He took your pistol."

I turned, my eyes widening. "My pistol?"

You nodded, stepping closely. "Jandi _was_ hiding something."

I caught a breath, walking over to sit down on the edge of the sofa, processing everything. Greg was stepping between the islands of books, picking through and leafing across pages without a goal in mind. Sholto was still studying the destruction from afar, and you came closer to me.

"Did Jandi say anything, touch anything, behave in any way that was strange before you left?"

"No, he seemed fine," I whispered.

You knelt down. "You don't remember anything out-of-place?"

I looked up at the shelves, where Greg was now standing. "He was organizing."

"Yes, I told him to make himself useful."

"But maybe he was looking for something. That would explain the wallpaper, too. Hidden cabinets, secret pages." I met your eyes.

You froze, your eyes going out of focus before you turned away, surveying the room, glossing over the bookshelves. "None of my books in this room have secret compartments. Only the bedroom. Which they went through those, as well, but there was nothing too important. Some cigarettes, some talismans. Luckily we won't have to worry about privacy."

"Privacy," I grunted.

"John." You spun back. "Jandi might be in danger. He's our biggest lead to find the missing woman."

"Macie."

"Macie. We have to find him."

I started up, stretching out my leg carefully.

"We'll start in Allsop." You continued. "I'd doubt they'd be so sloppy as to be found there, but it's a lead. We'll take the cab; Greg's car could be recognized. We're not splitting up, either. It's too dangerous."

"And what if we find him?" I asked.

"We pursue. Major, I trust that you have a weapon?"

He paused, then nodded.

"Good. Proceed with utmost caution. I don't doubt that will be a problem for you, but if we happen to get separated, I want you to keep John close to you. Lestrade and I are both armed, we'll be fine."

"Do we know who the woman is?" I asked. "It's not-...?"

"No, it's not." You interjected.

"We think it's the woman who we spotted at the gate." Greg said. "She fits Mrs. Hudson's description. Black hair, bronzed skin, slim figure, gold eyes."

"But why would she be the same? She helped us find Jandi. Why would she want to take him again?"

"We don't know," You answered. "We just have to find them. Both of them."

* * *

I struggled to keep up with you, but you hardly seemed to notice me. The sun was setting; once again, and you were pressed for time. We had combed through the roads around Baker Street and Allsop, driving around the York Gate and even toward the east end of Regent's, but there was no sign of either Jandi or the mystery woman, and so we decided that our chances would be higher on foot. The four of us scoured the neighborhoods and roads all along the southern edge of the park, running and walking until we were all exhausted, irritated, and sweaty. My leg had begun to burn, and I could tell that Sholto was going down as well. But you refused to give up.

"We're getting close, I can feel it." You said, continuing to thunder down the road, Greg at your heels while James and I started to linger.

"There's nothing, Sherlock," I countered. "We've found nothing."

You turned to shoot me a look. "We'll find him, John."

"Maybe we should check around Allsop again."

"We've already checked there."

"Maybe we should check again. He could've come back. Maybe he's at the flat."

"He's ruined the sitting room and stolen your gun, I highly doubt he would come back of his own power." You dipped your head down an alley and squinted, but nothing caught your eye, and you kept moving. Greg briefly shone his flashlight in but followed as well.

"Sherlock, we can't go much longer," I said, losing my breath.

"Then go back to the flat if you can't keep up," You shouted, dipping down another alley.

"You tear out your stitches if you keep running around lke this," I warned.

You weren't interested. Instead, your shoulders followed your head into the darkness, and Greg had to backtrack. You had been nearly swallowed by the shadows, but he shined the light along your back, illuminating what laid before you, down an old grime-coated set of stairs. A large iron door flashed back at us, and you ran your gloved hands across it, deeply breathing in the smell of rust.

"Get away from there, Sherlock, that's not what we're looking for."

"Blood." You stated. You sniffed the air. "Cigarettes. Someone was smoking."

"We're in _London_," He complained.

You sunk to your knees, running your fingers along the base of the door, collecting the dust and dirt from the ground and rubbing it between your fingertips.

"What does smoking have to do with anything." I asked, bent over to catch my breath.

"Shut up and let me think."

You let the dust gently float to the ground, then rose from your crouch. Your eyes flickered into the shadows, and gently you creeped back up the stairs, your eyes preened on the brick wall separating one street from the next. It smelled like days-old garbage and dog shit. Sholto covered his nose with his sleeve, and I grimaced at the scent of it, but you kept sniffing the air, focusing on that faint scent of cigarettes on the breeze. "The ash here is fresh. But no-one has been in that hollow since at least the last rainfall. It's her, I'm sure of it."

"_How_ could you possibly know that?"

You glanced at Greg. "They're my cigarettes."

I released a long breath and stretched out my arms, taking a second to make sure Sholto wasn't suffering too badly. He seemed uncomfortable but intently focused, his eyes scanning across the road just past the buildings. You massaged your temples, then paused to look down at your gloves, particularly the fingertips which were still smudged with dirt and ash. You then glanced up and nearly fell over on the spot.

Up five stories, completely doused in black, was her. She had gold eyes that gazed down at us like a cat from above the glow of her lighter - the only proof we had that she was there in the first place. The little red speck of her cigar pulsed in the darkness, and a small plume of smoke drifted up toward the sky.

"There!" You exclaimed.

Immediately you took off running, getting quite a clearance from the ground as you reached for the first ladder of the fire escape. The woman got up and disappeared into the window, her little light swallowed up into the shadows. You brushed up the ladder in seconds, followed by Greg, and I followed as quickly as I could manage.

The window led into a dark flat that smelled like weed. A small television crackled from the corner of the room, but the flat was empty, and the door to the hallway ajar. Obviously the building had fallen into ruin; ugly graphitti plagued the walls, and there were all kinds of cans, bottles, and glasses scattered along the room and the hall. Footsteps echoed farther down and you burst out into a long stairwell, where, underneath you, you could see the long black ponytail of the woman in pursuit.

Blood thundered in my head as I followed you, Greg flying behind you just as fast, his coat wrapped tight around his chest and billowing up behind his legs. Sholto was trying, but he was daunted in the face of the stairway. Although my pain faded, his didn't, and I lingered behind to make sure I didn't lose sight of him. But you and Greg didn't have the same idea.

"Wait, Sherlock!" I shouted, poking my head down the staircase. "Wait!"

"Stay with him!" You shouted back, disappearing after the woman down another long hallway. Greg came after him without an argument, and I began slowing down, letting my heart start to relax for the first time in hours.

"I can't run like I used to," James said, sweat pouring from his brow. He looked frustrated, but I couldn't blame him.

"Don't worry, Sherlock's got it handled." I sprinted down the rest of the stairs and waited at the doorway for him.

The whole building seeped with darkness and mold. Exit signs flickered ominously with their last few drops of power, and the streams of light that made it through the black-coated windows was neither help nor comfort. Sholto fell in close behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off of him, and I was thankful for that. The closer the better; I was afraid I'd lose him if he got more than a few steps away. I could hardly see my own hand in front of my face.

Your voice echoed farther along, and I followed it cautiously.

"Aren't we going to catch up?" James asked, hardly having caught his breath.

"We won't have to." I answered. "If we can't be fast, we can at least be smart."

As your banging faded away, the silence floated around us like a presence. Our soft footsteps were claps of thunder. Both of us had our necks stretched tight, and I was sure that the prick in the bottom of my stomach meant that James already had his gun in his hand. The fork in the hall led left and right, and although I remembered that you and Greg had gone racing to the right, I turned toward the left.

Here, as we were closer to the street, we could hear the cars chirping outside, the passing crowd drumming like gentle rain against the sidewalk. There was a small maitenance stairway still illuminated with little blips of white light, so we followed them down, coming out onto the second floor, where the hallways were wider and the doorways larger. I briefly wondered what kind of building this was, but there weren't very many clues left for us to find.

Your frustrated shouts were still buzzing in the air, and I could hear your footsteps from somewhere on the level, but they seemed far away. I peered into the darkness, lit up by flashes of red and gold from the streetlamps and flickering exit signs. My nerves stood on edge as we approached another fork, and I reached back to brush my fingers against Sholto's arm, telling him to stop. I missed his arm and brushed the neck of his gun, which made me cringe.

Someone was close. I gently stepped forward, careful not to let the floor creak too much, and approached one of the doors. Sholto then touched my shoulder and nudged me back; he pointed his gun at the door, nearly bumping the metallic surface, and snapped the handle open. The door screamed on its hinges, and Sholto let his pistol guide the way into the darkness.

Empty.

But in response to the long, rusty creak, footsteps descended quickly from the right, making me jump. I patted quickly against Sholto's back and we both rushed inside, scrambling to find the darkest shadow while the drumming grew closer.

I spun around, forcing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and as they did, I glanced straight into the barrel of a gun. My gun.

Sholto realized it half a moment after I did. His gun was leveled at her head in an instant, clicking off the safety. Her eyes were narrow and cold as stone.

"I had assumed you would come for him; I just underestimated how quickly."

"Meer, stop!" Jandi appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide.

"Put down your weapon," Sholto commanded.

"Say another word, Major, and I'll blow his fucking head off." She replied, never taking her eyes off me. Sholto shifted his hands on his gun, but I was frozen in place.

It seemed like the smell of the whole building had originated with her. Smoke, spice, mold, grime, and sweat. Her long black hair blended easily with the darkness, and her face was filled with long shadows, leaving only her eyes to watch me.

"Your fiancé is pretty damn annoying," She said. "Tell him to get the hell off our case."

"I told you you shouldn't have damaged their flat!" Jandi cried, stepping inside.

"What are you doing here, Jandi?" I asked.

He hesitated, and the woman briefly broke eye contact to shoot him a glare.

"I told you not to leave the flat." I continued. "Who's this?"

"I-"

"Names are irrelevant, doctor." She flipped off her own safety. "This is a nice instrument you have here. Mind if I try it out?"

"_Put down your weapon_." Sholto ordered.

She turned to glare at him. "I told you, one-"

I snapped my hand into her wrist, knocking the barrel of the gun toward the ceiling just as it fired, the huge sound making my ears ring. I wrestled her for it, reaching out for her shoulder with my opposite hand, but she was fast. Her elbow slammed into my ribcage, knocking the breath out of me, and just as Jandi shrieked for her to stop, she twisted my arm painfully around my back and jammed the pistol against my throat.

But now you had heard the shot, and you were coming fast. Jandi fled further into the room, and as he did, Sholto fired once in his direction, not to kill but only to spook the two of them.

"I'm not fucking with you, major!" She shouted, then brought the gun down to my thigh. I couldn't stop the little choking sound that came from the back of my throat as the cold metal pressed against my throbbing leg.

You and Greg were inside, your guns both trained also on the woman. I looked at you with wide eyes, but you were focused, and you couldn't be compromised. "Stop what you're doing," Lestrade shouted.

"You're caught now, give it up." You said, your eyes narrow. "We just want to talk."

"Those weapons don't look very talkish," She responded.

"We'll put them down as soon as you let John go," You offered.

"And how do I know that you will?"

You rolled your eyes. It was mostly disguised by the darkness, but I caught it, and I had to assume that the woman had, too. You slowly dropped your arms, clicking the safety back on, and Greg followed suit, sweat still beading on his forehead. Sholto was the last, and the woman gave him a defiant smirk as she released my arm, shoving me off toward you with her (my) gun still at her side.

"What do you bastards want." She asked.

Greg caught me and brought me to his side as you approached her. "Jahandar had gone missing."

"Jahandar's a big boy, didn't you think he could take care of himself?" She asked.

"Short version, no."

She tsked, flicking back on her own safety and tucking the muzzle into her belt. "I guess the detective can be wrong, then. I have business with Jahandar, and he has business with me. So stay out of our way, and there won't be any more problems. Good?"

"Jahandar came to us for protection."

"Jahandar came to you for help. And obviously you couldn't do much for him." She glanced at Sholto. "Y'know how easy it was to waltz into that flat? Damn. I'm surprised half of you are still alive."

"And you can?"

She looked at you, eyes almost glowing.

"You can help him?"

"We may not be on the same team, Mr. Holmes, but we both want the same thing." She said. "Stay out of my way, and maybe we'll get along. But if you come running after me again, I'll blow you to fucking pieces. That goes for your friends, too."

She brushed past you, displacing your arm with her shoulder, and faced Greg and I. She gave us a long look, her eyes grazing from Lestrade onto me, wavering, then walking toward the doorway. She said nothing, and none of us followed her.

"I'm so sorry, doctor." Jandi said, coming to me. I took a cautious step back, but I knew he wasn't trying to be aggressive. His hands were open in front of him, his brow soft. "I don't want to pull you into this. But thank-you, for what you've done. You too, major. I'm very thankful."

"What the hell are you doing, Jahandar." You demanded.

He looked up at you. "I'm trying to save my friend."

"Who is that woman?" Greg asked.

"Get your shit in here, Jandi, I'm not waiting." She shouted from the hall.

He glanced at the doorway, then back at me. "She's Miranda, or Meer. She's trying to help. I swear. She's just a bit-"

Two shots were fired in the hallway, followed by an echoing silence. None of us moved.

"-that." He touched my arm. "Don't wait for me."

"Jandi-"

"I've got to go, I'm sorry."

He jogged past Greg and I, meeting the woman in the hall. None of us dared to even look after them until we heard the doors to the staircase swing shut, and their two pairs of footsteps quickly descending. You glanced over to meet my eyes, now assessing, deducing, running along my frame like a cat. But one thing was stuck firmly in my mind.

"She took my gun," I murmured.

* * *

Your review's got me looking so crazy right now.

But seriously, review. I missed you guys.

Next update Sunday.


	11. Chapter 11

I APOLOGIZE PROFUSELY. I literally saved this chapter on the Doc Manager and forgot to post it ugh dammit I'm really sorry. Here you go.

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"You're a colonel, aren't you?" You demanded, leaning forward in your chair as Colonel Guendolyn broadened his shoulders. "And you're claiming there's nothing you can do."

"I'm a man of the court, not the field, Mr. Holmes." He replied.

"You said that you'd get in touch with the ambassador," I inserted.

"And I tried. But he's a busy man."

"Make him more busy. We have a British citizen _and_ war veteran-"

"-gone missing, yes, I am well aware. But as I told John, there's very little I can do at the moment. The war is ending, and we don't want to do anything that may upset the delicate balance of peace there. A new team of investigators, even an _investigation_, could turn out to be devestating."

"Then use the people you already have out there," You demanded.

"And send them back into hostile territory?" He scoffed. "It's not going to happen."

You glared at him, your hands still gripped tightly over the arms of your chair, and he returned it with an irritated look of his own. I reached over to brush my hand against your knee, trying to give you a little incentive to calm, and you bit, sitting back to visibly relax. The colonel appreciated it and let his temper cool as well, his jaw rotating and his hands folding neatly in his lap.

Sholto, who had turned down a seat and had just been examining Guendolyn's bookshelves, now came toward us. "What about the woman?" He asked. "If she were a criminal, could you help us find her?"

"It would depend."

"On what?"

"On how much data you could get for me, and how far my clearance will take you." He turned toward his computer, tapping in a few words while continuing to talk to Sholto. "Name?"

"Miranda." You answered for him.

Guendolyn glanced up at you, looking surprised. I touched my forehead; recognition was a great thing for you, probably a bad thing for Jandi.

"You know a Miranda?"

"I wouldn't have, except-" Franklin swept through the pile of papers to his left, running his finger through until he found the document in mind. "There was an article was just distributed a few days ago. A warrant is out for the arrest of this woman."

He folded over the page and showed us. All three of us agreed almost instantaneously. Long black hair, big eyes, athletic figure. Definitely looked like her.

"Who is she?"

"That's a good question." Franklin responded, taking back the photo. "We think she's primarily English-speaking, but we can't be completely sure. Those few who've met her have claimed she was American. In the underworld she's identified by the name Miranda Kaj, but she has also gone by Ming Gila, Melanie Hernandez, and Meer Silayeva in several separate cases."

"All names beginning with M," You murmured. "Fascinating."

"She's currently wanted in Hong Kong, she's made the lists," He said. "She reportedly has large claims with drug trafficking. And she's dangerous. I'll have to let someone know right away that she's been spotted. Where was the last place you saw her?"

"You'll find out as soon as you start the search," You replied, smugly.

"I can't start the search if-" The lights came on in Franklin's eyes, and he closed his mouth tightly. "I've already told you-"

"You've heard my conditions."

Frustrated, the colonel turned to me. "John."

"Don't ask me. I didn't even want to share any of this." I argued. "The woman, whoever she is, told us specifically that if we tried to go after her, she'd respond. Whether it be a private detective or the police force, it constitutes as 'going after', and I don't want to do anything else that might put Jandi in danger. I just want to find Macie."

He kneaded his wrists and glanced up at Sholto, who now was standing behind our chairs.

"I'll agree with John." He said.

"You all are madmen. Fucking vigilantes." Franklin grumbled. He stooped down to fish out a fresh pad of paper and a pen from his drawer, laying it in front of us with his brow still angrily curled. "But if you want any bloody help, you're going to have to be giving me names. Villages. People. Anything to start the search. But I'm sure Sholto has plenty of information yet to tell us, don't you, major?"

"I'll help as much as I can," He answered.

"Good." He tapped at the page. "Write."

I gave up my chair to James as he came forward, and took a place behind you. "How soon do you think you'll be able to have results?" I asked.

"It depends on how much Major Sholto is able to give me. If his memory's still wholly-to-mostly intact, it could be several days to several weeks. If not, there will be much more useless information to weed through." He glanced up at me. "You can imagine."

"Why would my memory be a factor?" James defended.

"It's no offense to you, major. But I am aware of your handicap." He said.

Sholto looked at him.

"PTSD is often known to cause memory loss." He continued. "Particularly around the time of the traumatic event. If the damage was significant, it could affect the information you give us. But we don't have the time for you to test whether your memory is accurate, so for now we'll have to rely on your word."

The thought fluttered through Sholto's eyes but seemed to twist his stomach when it settled on his tongue. "My memory is fine."

"Let's hope so." Franklin looked back down at the paper. "Is that all?"

He looked down as well. There was a small list, neatly divided into two columns, where he had listed the names of villages that he remembered, alongside the names of persons that he could recall. From what I could see, it looked like a pretty decent list to get started. But there was something wrong. Sholto was frozen, his eyes gone blank as he looked down at the list.

"Is everything alright, major?" Guendolyn asked.

Sholto snapped himself out of it. "Yes. Here."

Franklin took the slide back and nodded at the contents, picking up his desk phone. "I'll make some calls, see what I can do, and I'll get back to you. Rachel, put me on the line with Schwarz. You three, get out."

You rose toward the door and I followed suit, my cane tapping gently against the carpetted flooring. Rachel, the PA, gave us a half-apologetic, half-impressed look as we left, nodding briefly to us as Sholto closed the door.

The hallway was bright with the sunshine streaming through the windows, so much so that it hurt my eyes at first. You started digging through your pockets, evidently looking for your mobile phone, and were absentmindedly whispering things to yourself. "Lestrade tried contacting me, I need to call him back." He said, and motioned toward one of the guest sofas. "You wait here. I'll be back."

You gripped your phone and quickly stepped away, leaving Sholto and I outside the colonel's door. Sholto was the first to sit, and I joined him not long after, massaging my leg with the back of my palm while I watched you pace back and forth. Obviously you were enjoying the new challenge, and the energy radiated off you like heat. But the feeling was not mutual, and I could tell that Sholto was dragging even more than I was.

He was sitting with his elbows propped onto his knees, head held halfway down. I felt as if I was invading his privacy somehow, but when he realized I was watching him, he tilted his head toward me and glanced back. His eyes were glassy, but still somewhat focused on me.

"You don't really think my memory was affected, do you?" He asked.

"It didn't seem too bad," I said, honestly. "Not any worse than mine. Although, you did forget about Eddie being with Gale."

"They were acting suspiciously but they were never really together. I do remember that."

"They were together, I'm telling you. You and I were in the surgery with them, and they macked right there. " I smiled, but as the thought wavered, it disappeared. "You really don't remember that night?"

"I remember it," He answered. "But not the way you do. You dressed my arm in my dorm, not in the ward."

I pursed my lips, not quite sure how to respond, and Sholto took it like a kick to the stomach.

"There _are_ things missing." He murmured.

"I'm sure it's just nothing," I said quickly. "It isn't a big deal. Maybe I'm the one who forgot."

"No."

He held my eyes in his, and it felt like my heart was breaking. We were both caught off-guard, and we didn't quite know how to deal with it. I felt his pain like a lightning strike; his memory was all that linked us to Macie now, and at the same time it was keeping us from her. I didn't even know how to comfort him now. Even as much as I wanted to, I couldn't repair his mind.

You broke our silence with the end of your phone call, sliding your mobile back into your pocket and unbuttoning the front folds of your coat. "An audacious criminal just arrived in the country from Hong Kong," You rattled, "Interested in finding a young woman with ties to Afghanistan. A young veteran. She enlists the help of the woman's Afghan housemate. Or did he enlist _her_ help? If so, how did he meet her? How did their lines cross?"

"Try to keep it down, Sherlock." I muttered, standing.

"And even though she's crafty, she always chooses to take names with the first initial M. Why M? Is there something that the surnames also have in common?"

"She could have found identity in the first initial."

"But identity is closely linked to sentiment. Most high-ranking criminals don't have many problems with sentiment."

"Maybe this one's different."

"She's a woman."

"That's... not what I meant."

"No, but how many women do you see in positions of authority in criminal world? Not many. She would've had to squirm and crawl, inch her way up their ranks. But she's young, too. She must've had something more to offer them, something dangerous and unique. She's definitely different, but how?" You gripped your fists together. "_God_, it's a good one."

You got some odd looks from some passerbys, and I cleared my throat. "Might want to contain your enthusiasm. We _are_ in Parliament, after all."

"And shouldn't we be focusing on finding Lowdry?" Sholto inserted.

"Finding Miranda will lead us to finding Lowdry," You answered. "She said that we were after the same thing. So then, the reason that Miranda cares about Macie is the reason we should care about Macie."

"Maybe she cares because she's a human being." I asked.

"She care because she's _different_," You corrected. "And different means exciting. Definitely un-boring. Always un-boring." You stepped toward the elevators, expecting us to follow along. "We'll go back to the flat and see what we can do about a web. Sholto, do you have experience with crime webs?"

"I can't say I have."

"It's not too complicated. I'll set it up."

"What did Lestrade want?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, Lestrade." You clicked the elevator button. "His team's gotten farther with the Maratina case. They're in the planning stages of another bust, and he wants me up there with the logicians to help work out the routes."

"I thought you weren't going anywhere until you were fully healed."

"I wouldn't be leaving the Yard," You said. "There's no field work."

I bit my cheek as the elevator doors opened. We let the occupants leave before we stepped inside, you clicking the level for the ground floor, while Sholto and I stood back. You turned to me, leaning your head down just barely enough to be noticeable as the doors slid closed.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Just tired." I stretched out my arms. "I might lay down at the flat."

"That would be a good idea."

I nodded, glancing up at you. You were deducing me again, grazing across my figure head to foot. You tried to do it softly, but I didn't enjoy it any more than usual. My attention was shot, and all I wanted was to get home. Sholto could sympathize; he met my eyes from across the elevator, a shimmering mixture of both cold and warm.

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Nevermind, I'll find reviews like you.

Next update Thursday.


	12. Chapter 12

I know this story seems to be going pretty slowly right now but I don't think you guys realize how much I love writing for Sholto and John. Like at this point I'm looking forward to writing them every day. I adore Sholto and John, and this is my favorite period of a relationship to write. Ugh I'm enjoying this way too much. Hopefully you guys are too.

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You were in the shower, just freshening up before you heading over to Scotland Yard. Sholto was in the other room helping Mrs. Hudson tidy things up in the wreck that was our sitting room, but for some reason I just couldn't bring myself to face them for more than a few minutes. I had folded myself onto our mattress, one hand clasped around my stomach and the other cushioning my head as my thoughts wandered, eyes frozen on the blinking blue alarm clock.

I was exhausted, but I was wide awake. I felt like I had let Jandi slip through my fingers, as if fate had given me the responsibility to protect him from whatever Macie had gotten herself into and that I had failed. He was gone now, out of my reach. Sholto was trying to help, but it wasn't his fault that he was limited. Of course, now he would consider it his fault, because his illness may or may not have caused some memories to be buried away. But really, it was still my fault, because I was the one who wasn't competant enough to protect him from it.

My heart faltered. I had to stop thinking like that, I'd drive myself into a panic.

The shower switched off, and not a few minutes later you appeared through the door, your trousers fastened and a towel hanging around your shoulders. You hadn't been expecting to see me laying there. You turned to sit beside me. "Chose to lay down after all?"

I didn't reply, and you touched my shoulder.

"John?"

Slowly I shifted toward you, letting my arm fall back to my side, brushing gently against your thigh. "Sorry. Tired."

"I can tell." You smoothed my fingers with yours. "Lestrade said I should only be needed for an hour or so."

"Alright."

I let out a little breath, letting my eyes wander off onto the wall behind you. I really was exhausted. I could feel my eyelids getting heavier and my mind getting cloudier. But your fingers on my palm kept that nagging guilt in the pit of my stomach. I looked back at you.

"Do you think I made a mistake, Sherlock?" I asked, quietly.

You paused, studying me. "You did what you thought was best."

I stirred. "But I pulled him right into her path. I was supposed to protect him."

"No one asked you to."

"But it was my responsibility."

"He's an adult, he can take care of himself."

"Can he?" I whispered.

"He's very much able to think and act for himself. You did what you could."

"I still feel like a twit about it."

"You shouldn't." You reached up to brush my forehead. "He came here of his own free will, you didn't force him to do anything he didn't want to."

"I know." I twisted my neck, glancing toward the door, my breath still a bit scarce. "I'm just afraid for him. If anything happens, it'll be my fault, and there isn't anything I'm going to be able to do for him if something does go wrong. I just... I wanted things to get better, but it doesn't look like they're going to. I shouldn't have involved him in the first place."

"Macie was the one to involve Jandi, not you." You countered. "He was involved plenty of time before you had any say about it."

"Jandi?" I turned to you.

You were puzzled. "What?"

We froze there, staring at each other, until I pulled myself away from your hand and folded up again. You didn't let me sulk for long, though, and laid over me with your shoulder gently resting against mine.

"Why would you consider yourself responsible for Sholto?" You asked.

"Not Sholto himself, more like his well-being..." I trailed off.

"Why?"

"He's been through a lot, Sherlock, and I don't want to have to put him through anything else."

"You use that excuse a lot."

"It's not an excuse, it's the truth."

"Is it?"

Exasperated, I pressed my face into one of our pillows, hoping to end the conversation there. But I heard you tsk; soon your lips were gently pressing against my ear, trailing down toward my jawline. I rotated my shoulder to try and get you off, but you placed your hand firmly on my stomach and held it there, kissing the top of my neck.

"Come on, John, don't pout." You cooed, moving yourself completely onto the bed.

I straightened myself to try and bat you away, not quite angry but still a bit aggrivated. I pushed at your chest and shoulders, careful to avoid your belly area for fear of loosening the stitches, but even so you pushed my hands away easily. Finally I gave a little grunt and gave in, leaning my head back and letting your lips graze where they wanted, trying my best to swallow the bead of irritation that had formed in my throat.

But you grabbed at my hips a little rougher than you should have, and when I started to complain, you kissed me a little rougher than you should have. I struggled and squirmed, realizing that you were still trying to play, but feeling my anger build. My heart started racing, and my lungs couldn't keep up. I wheezed and grunted to get you off, but you put your hand against my lips, and that was all it took.

You stopped as soon as I started crying. I couldn't even catch it, it came over me so fast, and I was swept along with it. I was gasping for breath, sobbing into my pillow and shaking against your hands, your mouth whispering into my ear. The convulsions seized me and rattled me. You didn't wait long before grabbing the Xanax out of my bed-side drawer, helping me get it down with a little sip out of the emergency water-bottle. You then rubbed my back until I came down.

And as I did, I was furious. Even past the calming effect of the Xanax, my chest burned with anger. I curled away from you as soon as I regained control over my arms, and sent you away as soon as I could speak.

"Get out, just go," I groaned, holding my head between my trembling hands.

"I can't leave you like this." You replied.

"Please," I pleaded, and descended into another rush of cold panic. You pulled away from me, and I could almost feel your dejection on my back.

"I'm sorry, John." You said. I couldn't respond. You stepped back off the bed, quickly finished dressing, and excused yourself with a quick click of the door.

* * *

I saw Sholto fairly often around Camp Bastion after our introduction in the infirmary. His side had healed up fine, no complications, and so he was back on the job pretty quick. Our paths didn't cross much, him being more concerned with the military upper-head and I being more concerned with the medical upper-head, but whenever he came within sight, I recognized him.

He was a handsome man, I had to admit it, even though I profusely confessed to being as un-gay as possible while admitting it. He had sharp, glassy eyes and a strong jaw. If there was someone that looked good the stupid desert gear I hated so much, it was him. I could look past the ugly gear when it was him. He seemed impassive, but a calm sort of impassive, and was a mysterious person to watch. I knew nothing about him; maybe that was why I felt so drawn to him. He was the most exciting thing I'd encountered in months.

I had the pleasure of seeing him again in the infirmary about a month after the first injury, this time (as I had heard) thanks to the mood swings of an army buggy. It wasn't much of a big deal, just a gash over the head that needed to be cleaned up. I saw him sitting on one of the med ward cots and had a contented little smile.

Macie Lowdry was standing there with him, her arms folded neatly over her stomach, mouth curled up in a little smile while Sholto talked. He sounded a bit ruffled, but she was getting a kick out of it. "You think he crashed the buggy on purpose?" He asked.

"I didn't even see the accident," She giggled. "It just seems a little funny that he crashed right after you told him about the promotion."

"It wasn't necessarily right after," He said.

"Seemed like it," She smiled.

Sholto shook his head, then looked toward me. "Hello again, Dr. Watson."

"Hello, Captain." I nodded to him.

"You two have been introduced?" Macie asked, glancing between us.

"Yes, he stitched me up a few months ago." Sholto nodded.

"What's happened here?" I asked, stepping closer.

He pursed his lips. He was currently sporting quite a nice goose-egg bruise over his right eye, crusted with blood and grotesquely swollen. His eye wasn't quite shut, but it wasn't at its full capacity, either. But he still had a certain degree of spunk that he hadn't had the last time I got to speak with him. "Some bloke crashed his buggy right up against the side of the barracks," He reported. "Got himself a nice concussion. I'm not too bad, just an egg."

"I can see the egg." I shone my light into his eyes, setting my finger underneath his chin to pull it up toward me. His eyes were perfectly responsive. "Your memory's fine?"

"I think I've pretty much already checked that for you," Macie said. "He seems fine."

"That's good. I'll just disinfect it, then. Do you want me to wrap it?"

"That's not necessary," He waved me off. "I'll get by."

I nodded, walking back over to the supplies cabinet. "What's this promotion you were talking about?"

Sholto leaned back. "There were three of us in the buggy. The two other guys didn't really get along much. But one of them was trying to make conversation, so the other mentoned his own recent promotion to Lieutenant. It didn't help much for conversation, and the idiot driving crashed not long after."

"Sounds interesting." I murmured. "They in your division?"

"Yeah. The driver was pretty embarassed."

As I was spreading the antiseptic cream over Sholto's forehead, I smiled and glanced down at his eyes. He was looking at me, too, in a sort of way that made me momentarily lose my train of thought. Macie saved my ass by continuing to chatter on, making the whole situation with the buggy into a joke and lifting his spirits a bit. I felt a bit like I was intruding on him, as if seeing him with his guard down was a breach of his privacy, but the glitter in his eyes only made him that much more interesting, and I had a front-row seat.

* * *

For a little while I tried to sleep, but my chest felt so restless that I had to at least walk around. It was mid-afternoon, and you had been gone around an hour. I could still hear Mrs. Hudson and Sholto out in the sitting room, chittering and cleaning up the sitting room. Their soft voices helped lure me back into the real world. His voice wasn't quite as deep as yours, but I still felt like there was a twang of resemblance in it. While I listened, I could almost see the color of his eyes.

I decided that I had spent enough time moping and thought that maybe a cup of tea would help my anxiousness. As I came out into the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson glanced up at me with light in her eyes. "Oh, John." She smiled. "Are you feeling better? I hope we didn't wake you."

"No, you didn't wake me." I stepped closer, and Sholto appeared from around the corner, a small load of books on his arm. Our eyes met, and he gave me a nod. "Thank you for doing this, you two. You really didn't have to."

"And leave your flat a disaster? Heavens, no." Mrs. Hudson patted some papers into a line.

"I thought you weren't our housekeeper," I said.

"I'm not, but I know when you sort need a little help," She gave me one of her mischievous smiles. "It's a sixth sense."

I shook my head, pouring myself down into my armchair. I had brought my cane with me. It wasn't as much that my leg was hurting as much as it was that I was just so physically worn out, my limbs felt like lead. My shoulders sank into the soft cushions, and I almost passed out right there.

"Are you tired, John?" She asked, starting up. "I'll make you a cuppa."

"No, that's-" I paused. "Actually, that would be wonderful."

She laughed at me and fiddled a path through the remaining mess toward the kitchen while I settled down further into my chair. Sholto crossed in front of me and started organizing the books on a shelf. I had to say that already the shelves were looking better than they ever did when you organized them. You were a genius, but organization was definitely not your strong suit.

There were evidently no tea packets left, so Mrs. Hudson excused herself to go down to her flat and prepare tea. After she had closed the door behind her, Sholto turned to look down at me, not quite gently but not quite sternly either.

"You look like a corpse."

I blinked at him.

"I'm sorry." He put his hand on the desk and eased himself onto the floor.

"It's alright." I shifted. "I think."

"Sherlock seemed upset when he left." He said.

"We had a bit of a row." I admitted. I didn't know why.

"Hmm." He reached over and started stacking up books, dusting off the covers of some and setting them into piles of similarly-sized volumes. Sholto wasn't a genius, but organization was definitely his strong suit, and watching him rearrange the piles made me calm by itself. It reminded me of when he and I were assigned to organize the filing closet after we got one-too-many notices for being late to barracks. He had gotten irritated with my primitive method of organization and insisted he do it all himself. I realized that he was probably correcting Mrs. Hudson's organization, too.

I laid my cane against the side-table and crawled onto the floor with him, taking hold of some of the piled books and placing them in crude piles for Sholto to sort. He glanced up at me, briefly appreciating the same thing I had just appreciated, but neither of us spoke a word about it.

"If this case is too taxing on you, John, you don't have to involve yourself," Sholto said.

I sighed. "I know."

He watched me, pausing his organizing until I looked up at him, too. "I understand that you feel responsible for Jandi, but in all reality there probably isn't much you can do for him. I can meet with the colonel by myself if necessary. I don't have to stay here, if I'm the one stressing you. You don't have to do anything you can't do."

"Could you hear us?" I asked, leaning forward.

He raised an eyebrow. "What?"

I leaned back. "That was sort of what Sherlock and I were rowing about."

I busied myself with the piles while Sholto continued to watch, still as a statue as his eyes made my skin buzz.

"And also, you're not stressing me." I added. "I like having you here."

"Do you?"

"Well-" I coughed. "Yes."

"Alright. But the rest of what I said still stands."

I released a breath through my nose and looked back at him. "I was considering e-mailing Theresa and Eddie."

"The surgeons?"

"Yeah."

"Why? Do you think they know something?"

"I thought they might help jog your memory. And they've e-mailed me several times over the past few years asking for a visit. I've always been so busy, but maybe now is a good time to meet up, just to get some time off. Like you said. Get away for a day or two."

"Alright." He put a stack of books on your chair and pushed himself to his feet. "Do the live near here?"

"They're up in Glasgow, actually. But if we catch a train it should only take us a few hours. Do you ride trains?"

"I do."

"If that's alright with you, then, I'll get in touch with them."

He loaded the books onto one of the shelves beside the others. "I'm alright."

I nodded, then pushed up myself to retrieve my laptop from the kitchen table. Theresa was pretty good about checking her e-mail, so I was pretty confident that I would be recieving a reply not too long after I sent the message, but I still wanted to get things hammered down as soon as I could. Leaving tomorrow morning would probably optimal, if that's what Sholto wanted. I decided that you could come with us if you wanted, but somehow I knew that you would rather stay in London with Greg than meet up with our military friends. It didn't really matter. You needed a break from me, too.

Absentmindedly I glanced toward Sholto, hoping to ask him some sort of question, but he had snuck up on me and was now standing just across the table. My mind went entirely blank. I can't really describe what that look was like, but in a way it was the moment when you realize you've swam out too far, when your ankle catches the current underneath you. You know you're about to go down, but the fear drives all the air out of your lungs, and as your head goes under, the salty cold of the ocean overwhelms everything else until your can feel its heartbeat replacing yours.

"Do you-" I cleared my throat. "We could leave as early as tomorrow morning, if you're packed."

"I'm packed." He nodded. "And the sooner, the better."

I agreed. I agreed profusely.

* * *

Check yes Juliet, are you with me? Reviews are falling down on the sidewalk.

Next update Sunday.


	13. Chapter 13

If anything in this chapter is confusing, call it out, please. I tried to make everything smooth but I tend to miss some things, so your input would be greatly appreciated.

* * *

The train station crowd was relatively smooth considering it was morning, and I was grateful. Early light was streaming across the platform, filling the air with a sweet breeze. There was rain in the forecast in Scotland, but it seemed damn near close to perfect here, and I was hoping it would last for the trip. Sholto had his bag pulled close to his side, and my own duffel was slung over my shoulder, borrowed briefly from you. We would only be out for one night; you'd hardly miss it.

Or us, for that matter. You had come back yesterday in the late afternoon, depleted of energy and eager to sleep. I explained to you about our trip and you had groggily agreed before slumping into our bedroom. By the time I had woken the next morning, you were gone again, so I left a note in case you accidentally deleted our conversation and headed out the door. That was the extent of our interaction, and I wasn't exactly hoping for anything more.

Our train was scheduled to be leaving at eight-thirty, sharp, and it was already eight-fifteen. I noticed that Sholto seemed a bit stiff, stiffer than normal, with his hands kneading over the handle of his bag. I glanced the other way and made an effort to step closer to him.

"You alright, Major?" I asked, watching for the train.

"Yes." He looked down at me. "Are you?"

"Yeah." I fidgeted. "Do trains bother you?"

"No. Trains are fine. Crowds, too."

"Oh, alright."

He turned to look down the track, and I took the opportunity to watch him.

"Is it noises, then?"

"Hm?"

"Loud noises, do they bother you."

"A bit, yes." He straightened. "And heat."

"Alright. Do you have a safe word?"

"A what?"

"Safe word. Code. If you're nervous, or if you're becoming upset, you say it, and I'll know what it means without you having to explain it or anyone else having to know. I don't know, I found it convenient. If anything happens, just say something like... Normandy. I'll understand Normandy."

"Normandy."

"Do you know what I mean or am I just rambling?"

He turned, a little smirk on his face. "You're a bit rambling."

I flushed. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. Do you have one, a safe word?"

"Not exactly. I'll repeat your name."

"Hm?"

"It helps, sometimes."

We could hear the train's horn blaring in the distance, and soon it was upon us, roaring down the tracks. I covered my ears, continuing to watch Sholto as the brakes echoed throughout the station. He had his eyes closed, and his brows were a little furrowed, but besides those things he looked like he was still under control. The brakes released, and the train doors slid open, allowing the passengers to trickle out. I tightened the strap on my bag and waited until Sholto was ready to start moving.

There was a pleasant little table for two waiting for us in the first class coach. I had booked the tickets hoping that the first class would be a bit quieter than the other coaches, but as we entered in, there was still plenty of clamour. One older woman was arguing with a man who seemed to be her son, and the train attendants were politely trying to separate them as we brushed past. I put Sholto's bag in the compartment as he took his seat, then added my duffel and followed him myself.

"It's been years since I've been on a proper train," He remarked, settling into the seat.

"Yeah, me too." I nodded. "Did you ever ride them when you were a kid?"

"Once or twice."

"Very nice."

He nodded, then flinched at the sound of a metal tray sliding off one of the passenger tables. The fighting woman was beginning to shout at the attendant now, and as the security moved toward her, he knocked the platter. Sholto was facing the mess, so at least he saw it coming, but he still flexed his fingers in and out of fists. I felt a little cloud of guilt start to take shape over my head.

"I'm sorry, I was hoping first-class would be a bit more peaceful," I said, smiling to try to brighten him up. He just nodded.

"Don't worry."

"Well, I have plenty of meds if ever you need anything. I mean, I know PTSD isn't necessarily a panic disorder, but if you need something to numb you down, I have some spot-pills you can have. Just in case."

"I don't prefer using drugs to solve problems that are mental in nature," He said.

"Oh. Well, alright." I fidgeted. I was starting to fidget a lot, lately. "You're not on anything, then?"

"Medication, no. And it's of my own choice, not anyone else's. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Alright, no problem."

I looked down at my hands, then out of the window toward the station. Most of the passengers had already boarded, but there were still plenty of people milling around outside, checking their watches and chattering on mobile phones. I wasn't necessarily interested in them, but I watched one man in particular until I had memorized just how many squares were on his checkered tie in order to avoid Sholto's eyes for just a bit longer. I wasn't quite sure how to talk to him about his diagnosis, even though it was a conversation I had been wanting to have from the first day we spent in London. I was just too blocked up mentally to get the words from my head into my mouth.

Sholto let me have my privacy for a few moments, then broke the silence by ordering a tea from one of the attendants. "Do you want anything, John?"

"Oh, sure," I turned to the attendant. "A coffee would be nice. No sugars."

After the attendant left, Sholto spoke up. "I thought coffee aggravated panic."

"Not too much." I folded my hands over my stomach. "Caffeine can affect anxiety in large doses, but I don't drink coffee all too often."

"Oh, alright."

I nodded.

"You have a panic disorder, then."

"I was diagnosed with it, yes."

"Was that what you were diagnosed with out of Afghanistan?"

"No, actually, it wasn't. Out of Afghanistan they diagnosed me with PTSD because I showed PTSD-like symptoms. I'm not sure that diagnosis was necessarily accurate, though. More likely it was the panic disorder making its first appearance."

"You've had it since Afghanistan, then?"

"Eh. That's also debatable."

"How so?"

"For several years I didn't have many, or any, symptoms, so whether-or-not someone would consider that as 'recovery' is a matter of opinion. I was re-diagnosed a few months ago. Some personal things stirred it back up, but I've been trying to get back on my feet, and so far I'm getting better."

He nodded. The attendant returned with his tea and my coffee, setting the steaming cups down in front of us and filling my lungs with the bitter smell. I turned the handle toward me and thanked her; Sholto did the same, raising the cup carefully to his lips without responding.

"What about you, Major?" I asked. "If you don't mind telling me."

"I don't mind." He replied. "My diagnosis is PTSD. They tried to pin depression and anxiety disorder along with it, but they were dismissed as unfounded."

"Really?"

"I refused to answer any of their questions."

I chuckled, stirring my coffee. "Do you know what the difference is, then?"

"Between depression and post-traumatic stress?"

"Yes."

"One is similar to an emotional assault; akin to drowning or choking on various emotions, such as sadness, anger, or grief for various amounts of time. It can be short-term or long-term, but typically it's a period of emotional overstimulation that continues through days, weeks, even months, like waves. Post-traumatic stress doesn't come in waves, it comes in bolts. It's a bit more like a desert in respect to emotion. Feelings come in exploding funnels of anger, fear, sadness, or rage. It's instantaneous, and it leaves you reeling."

I watched him, the coffee growing cold in my hand.

"That was from a book."

"Oh." I tsked. "I should've assumed."

"Was I right?"

"A bit, yeah."

Sholto took another sip from his tea.

"Although, your definition of PTSD sounds a bit like a panic attack to me. Have you had panic attacks?"

"I wouldn't say I have." He answered. "You've already seen that I tense in response to noise, and I've have physicians tell me that it was a type of panic attack and that I should be medicated for it. But I consider panic attacks to be more severe, more debilitating. I become much more alert when I tense, so I don't consider it panic."

"What do you consider it, then?"

"I haven't decided. I've researched several books on mental stigmas and I've determined that the things I experience when I respond to noise are closer to hysteria than anything else. The definition is that a person physically reacts in an uncontrollable way in response to an extreme emotional response. The only difference in my case is that my physical responses, although uncontrollable by myself, are my immediate reflexes."

"So rather than shrieking or trembling like other hysteria patients, you just respond in the way your body was programmed to respond," I repeated.

"Without my instruction." He nodded.

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

"Have you been seeing anyone about it? Maybe you could find someone to help you reset your reflexes. A trick cyclist."

He shook his head. "I can manage it how it is. There's no need."

I pursed my lips. "One of the things that has really helped me stay grounded while I've been recovering is to have a stable group of friends. Friends from the surgery, friends from the Yard, Greg, Sherlock..." I paused, watching him. "Maybe that would help you, too. To have someone immediate."

Sholto glanced at me. "Are you volunteering?"

I laughed, setting my cup down. "No, I don't think that would be very convenient, considering work. And my fiancé."

He nodded, then, taking a sip, mentioned something else that almost made me fall over. "I had been afraid he would look like me."

I stared at him a moment, processing what he had just said and trying to make it sound like anything except what I thought he said. It was horrifyingly embarrassing at first, but when he met my eyes I burst into a smile, answered directly by his own. I was so caught off-guard that laughing seemed to be the only appropriate response, and I tried not to knock the table as my chest bubbled up. He took another drink from his tea, and I picked up my coffee, its taste and a grin still lingering underneath my tongue.

"Well, now that the elephant is out of the room," I breathed.

"I'm sorry, it was bothering me." He replied.

"What, that Sherlock might've looked like you?"

"No, the elephant." He said. "Sherlock looks absolutely nothing like me. Isn't like me much at all, in fact."

"He really isn't."

"I barely even recognized that he was who I thought he was when we first met."

"That happens more often than you may think, actually."

He nodded. "I thought he'd be taller."

I laughed again, careful not to spill my coffee in my lap. "I'm relieved that it isn't awkward. I was afraid it would be awkward."

"So was I."

"Sherlock hasn't said anything distasteful, has he?" I asked, stirring. "He was being a bit nosy before you arrived, and I was afraid he'd be off-handed if I wasn't around to keep him in line."

"No, he hasn't said anything about that. I assumed he knew, though. I couldn't imagine you keeping it a secret from him with me living in the upstairs bedroom."

"I've told him a bit, but not all."

"What did you tell him?"

"The truth." I answered. "We were under a lot of pressure, out in the field, dealing with all kinds of difficult things and situations. I needed companionship, and you needed a way to burn stress. We had both helped each other, and we both gained something from it. Nothing about it was typical or ordinary for a relationship back home, so I was hesitant to call it that, but for the most part I told him what it was."

He watched me carefully. "So you didn't tell him anything."

I pursed my lips. "Well... See, Sherlock's a genius, but he's a bit naive when it comes to certain things."

"Hm."

"I only skirted over certain details to keep him from embarrassing you too fully," I continued. "I wanted to make sure not to give him ammunition."

Sholto shuffled his head. "I could understand that."

"But apart from anything else, James," I added, "I'm just glad you're back."

He responded with a little smile. The train whistled and began its slow ascent.

* * *

The sun rose against the sky, its beautiful hues in striking contrast to the spring-green fields and hills. The coach was quiet and calm, the clack of the rails beneath us just a gentle rain. Sholto was reading a newspaper spread across the table while I watched the moving landscape, my legs folded beneath me and my coffee nestled in my hand. I let my mind wander comfortably, enjoying the silence and the serenity of the place. I had never seen England look so beautiful, but the early springtime seemed to be the perfect time for a train ride. I would be sad when this lovely tour was done.

Our conversation had trickled off just a few minutes ago, but we were in a comfortable quiet, both of us exhausted for subjects and both of us alright with that. Sholto was leaned back against his chair, his face much smoother than it had been when we had boarded. I tried not to look too long, though. I felt myself getting a little too transfixed on him, and I knew it wasn't healthy. I was close to glowing after accomplishing two of my major conversational goals within the morning. But as nostalgic as I was feeling, I couldn't forget that things were not the same.

The angry woman behind us remained angry, even if she was a quieter angry. She grumbled every so often at her son and at her attendants, complaining at the taste of the coffee and the consistency of the pudding, finally giving up and retiring into her e-reader. However, as the train hit a bump, the poor man across from her spilt his coffee onto the passenger table, getting it onto himself and also a few drops onto the screen of her reader.

She nearly blew him away. The whole coach was put off be her yelling and shrieking, screaming at her son, screaming at the attendant, crying and waving her reader in the air. She spat insults and called down curses so offensive that even I turned to glance at her. Security made a reappearance, guiding the woman into a separate part of the car to have a discussion with her while the son cleaned himself and soaked up the remaining coffee. He had said nothing in response to his mother's intensity, and after depositing the napkins into the trash, returned to his seat and watched the window.

I shook my head and turned back to the table, drumming my fingers and glancing up at Sholto to see if he had caught the display, too. He was still watching the young man past me, his eyes sad and glazed, passing from the man onto the hills. He looked like he was wrestling, but I wasn't sure with what, and I didn't know what to do for him, so I did what I thought was best. I let him be.

* * *

Maybe you're right, maybe this is all that I can be. But what if it's review, and it wasn't me?

Next update Thursday.


	14. Chapter 14

This story might actually end up having a higher word count than Asphyxia. Nice. But I never realized how difficult it was to figure out when and when not to capitalize the word _major_.

Halfway point on Sunday yea

Enjoy

* * *

"John Watson!" Theresa declared, appearing in the doorway. Sholto glanced up faster than I, watching as she flung herself down the stairs, careful of her steps but still eager to throw her arms around me. Her huge smile made the gray skies seem just a bit lighter. "It's been too long, John. What the hell held you two up?"

"There was a bit of a crowd at the station," I answered. "Getting a cab was a nightmare."

"Oh, I believe it." She rubbed my shoulder, then offered for my duffel. "Let me take that for you."

"No, it's alright, I've got this one. The major might need an extra hand, though." I glanced up to Sholto.

"I-"

"Of course, it's no problem," She laughed, sweeping up his case and hustling it up the stairs before he even had a chance to reply. He shot me an unhappy glance, but I grinned back at him and headed up after her.

Her husband, Ed (or as we knew him, Eddie), stood out on the landing to meet us, his big eyes gleaming out from behind tiny spectacles. As I finished my pilgrimage crutching to the stop of the staircase, I still didn't feel like I made it much higher than his elbows. "Have you gotten taller, or have I gotten shorter?" I asked, looking over him.

"I haven't gotten taller," He answered.

"Well, thanks," I scoffed.

He smiled, taking the bag from my shoulder and putting it on his own. "Come on in."

Their townhome was as gorgeous on the inside as it was on the outside. Bright corals filled every crevice, lining walls and bookshelves all along the main landing. Everything looked neat, clean, and freshly dusted; the whole house was filled with the smell of rain and honey, the windows left wide while the breeze floated lazily through. A long staircase led to the upper level, and around the corner the hall for the basement. I slipped off my shoes and wandered inside, letting my feet sink into the fur carpet.

"You two will be staying upstairs." Eddie said, motioning with his head. "Would you like to see the bedrooms?"

I wouldn't have minded, but I glanced at Sholto to see if he seemed up for another climb, and he seemed a bit stoney. "I don't think my leg will take another climb."

"No problem. I'll just put your bag upstairs. Make yourself at home."

"Thank-you." I turned into the sitting room and all-of-a-sudden felt filthy. Their furniture was predominantly white and gold, with rich red and blue coral flowers across the wall and the tea table. I straightened my shoulders and trod around, deciding to investigate the bookshelf and photo collection rather than sit. Sholto decided the opposite and relaxed back into the plush sofa, stretching out his arm.

"Sorry that we had to split you boys up," Theresa said, coming in to join us.

"Hm?" I turned to her.

"Guest rooms have twin beds, not queens," She said. "Sorry we have to split you up. I keep telling Ed that we need to get new furniture, but he keeps putting it off."

I was a bit unsure what part of her statement I was supposed to respond to. "Twin beds are fine."

"And we just painted the walls in your room, John, so I apologize if they seem a little naked." She gave her stomach a firm pat. "Making plans for the new nursery. We love the windows in that room and thought it would be just the perfect nursery room. Did it a lovely yellow."

"Congratulations," Sholto said.

"Oh, thanks, Major." She beamed. "We're pretty excited."

"When's the due date?" I asked.

"Mid-October." She smoothed over the front of her shirt. "I'm only now starting to show. Most mothers hate that part, but damn, I think it's just wonderful. I'm betting on a girl, definitely. Beautiful little baby girl. But we're doing the room unisex, just in case."

"That's probably best," I nodded.

"That's what I thought. So, how are you two boys doing, hm?" She took a seat in one of their armchairs, leaning out of it a bit to keep a good view of both of us. "Do you need anything? Water, tea, a few biscuits, maybe?"

"We had a meal on the train," Sholto answered. I crossed over to sit down beside him.

"Oh, yes, you two took Virgin, didn't you?" She cooed. "Those are my favorite rides. We always take Virgin when we visit down south. How did you like it?"

"The views were breathtaking," I answered.

"Always."

Eddie reappeared, and with him he brought a little tray of tea-on-ice and butties, setting it down on the sitting table and taking a chair himself. Sholto seemed as off-guard about the iced tea as I was. "What is this?"

"Sweet tea," Theresa answered. "I found it on our honeymoon when we flew to Florida. Addicted to the stuff ever since."

"I told her you wouldn't like it, but she insisted." Eddie clarified. "I can put on a pot if you don't."

"It's alright," I said, taking a sip. The crisp taste almost made me gag. "Oh, wow."

"I'll put on a pot," He hummed, standing.

"Don't you think it's still a bit cold to drink iced tea?" I asked, setting the glass down.

"Never too cold." She answered. "And it's nice right now. You two just missed the rain, bloody awful stuff. We're supposed to get some more tonight, but we've got the windows open for now. Enjoying the breeze while we can, yeah?"

I nodded, sitting back.

"Anyway, why am I still talking?" She tsked. "Tell me about you, John. What has Dr. Watson been making of his life lately?"

"Not anything too noteworthy," I said. "Just running around London."

"Are you still working at that surgery you told me about?"

"No. Not right now, at least. I'm taking a much-needed vacation."

"Ah, lovely. And how's that shoulder doing?"

"Much better." I rubbed it. "Hasn't been giving me too much trouble lately. I've reached eighty-five percent motion."

"Oh, that's fantastic."

"It really is."

"What's with that cane there?"

I glanced down to it and shrugged. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

Theresa grinned. "None of us really are, hm?"

She turned to Sholto. He hadn't even glanced at the tea or the butties, half-heartedly listening to our chatter while examining the room around us. He might've been tired, maybe even bored of sitting after that train ride, but he looked solemn, and it made the both of us feel a bit unsettled because we weren't quite sure why.

"What about you, Major?" She asked.

He glanced at her. "I'm sorry?"

"How have you been? It's been ages since I've heard of you."

"Yes." He smoothed over his leg. "I've got a bad habit of falling out of contact."

"How are you?"

"I'm quite fine, thank-you."

"Have you about settled down since you got home?"

He pursed his lips into a half-smile, his eyes flickering down to the table before landing on her again. "That's one way to put it."

"Are you still living alone after... you-know-what?" She asked.

"Yes, I am."

"And how is that working out for you?"

"Preferrably," He answered.

"That's nice, very nice." She smiled, leaning forward to pick up his left-over glass of sweet tea. "I'll just have this, if you don't mind. It's too tempting."

"Go right ahead."

Eddie returned from the kitchen with two steaming cups of tea, a little different from the way I would make it (it tasted a little bit more Scottish than typical, understandably) but still comforting to my stomach. He took a seat in a lounge chair to Theresa's right, adjusting his spectacles and crossing his legs in front of the table. Sholto again turned down the tea, but thanked Eddie anyway.

"So, John, are you still together with that detective?" Theresa asked, a mischievous grin on her face.

I cleared my throat. "Yes, I am."

"Well, that's good for you, but I can't help but say I was a teensy bit disappointed," She tittered. "If only the two of you had lasted a bit longer, the universe would all be in order, yeah?"

I let my eyes slide shut, and Sholto cleared his throat. "I think I will take that tea, after all."

"Oh, c'mon, don't be like that." She laughed. "I like embarassing the two of you."

"And maybe some vodka for me, thanks," I threw in.

Theresa croaked with laughter, and Eddie shot me a wink as he served Sholto his tea.

"You can drink all you want, but I'm still going to tease." She took another sip of her tea. "Remember that once I caught the two of you snogging in the back hall after our promotion banquet? Christ, it really is a surprise that one of you didn't get deported the way you were going at it."

"Really not appreciated, Theresa," I coughed.

"Half the corpsmen knew about it, dammit." She kept chuckling. "Ah, I wish you weren't so uptight, there were some good times wrapped up between those snogging sessions."

I rolled my eyes, drinking my tea to keep myself from further commenting, and glanced toward Sholto for reinforcements. He had his tea in his hand, stirring it gently and studying Theresa with an intent sort of light. He was part of the conversation now, at least, but he looked like he was on the verge of becoming pissed off with her prodding and poking.

"Oh, and poor Emerson, he was so worried. He had no idea what was going on, he must've come running to me at least a dozen times. You're lucky I was there, covering for your asses all the time, especially that one August."

Sholto's eyes seemed completely blank. "Who?"

"Emerson Gale? He was that one cadet that kept flirting with all the nurses."

"Was he part of our regiment?"

"I don't think so. He was in Bastion, not Ristol."

Sholto nodded.

"I thought his name was Louis," Eddie mentioned.

"No, no, that was Louis Sheckey, he was a corpsmen." Theresa corrected. "He was a flirt, too, but he was the red-haired one with the horrible Irish accent. Remember, he was the one who was with Emilie for the longest time, then got sent back to London on a harassment suit."

"I remember him." I curled my brow. "He was annoying as hell."

"He was the one who was hitting on Macie all the time." She continued, then burst into laughter. "Oh, yeah, Sholto, you nearly bashed his head in."

Sholto narrowed his eyes in thought, his eyes flicking back and forth. "I don't recall."

"I think that was one of the first times I'd met you," Theresa said. "I walked in on you with your fist down his throat."

I grinned. That was the perfect explanation of what had happened. Macie had been getting some of the organizing done in the back room and was being pushed around against her will. He and I had gone in to help out and uncovered them. At first it seemed as if he was going to handle the situation in a collected fashion, but it only took him a few seconds to realize what a douchebag Lou was and give him a nosebleed to last the rest of the night. But as we chuckled over the story, Sholto kept his cold expression, glancing toward me with a thread of confusion.

"Louis Sheckey died of a hemorrhage," He said.

We all went quiet. He was right; Lou had been working in the surgery when a raid blasted through the north wall. He was caught in the explosion. At first we had thought he had made it out with just a few breaks and a concussion, but he wouldn't wake up. He died a day later, and the biopsy revealed a bleed in his brain. We never could've saved him, but there were some people who were shaken by it - both by his death and by the raid. Sholto had been one of them.

Theresa tried to maintain a smile, but remembering that detail made thrown her off her tempo. "Mmh, a shame." She sighed. "Poor kid."

Eventually she picked back up the pace, but conversation didn't seem quite so vibrant. Sholto continued to stir his tea, watching her with a nostalgic pull, and I breathed up the steam from my cup and bound myself to the scent of honey in the air.

* * *

While Theresa rambled on about their honeymoon to Florida, Eddie disappeared into the kitchen. My tea was finished, so I followed him up, taking the rest of the platter with me. Neither of us had touched the butties, but Theresa had eaten a pretty significant number of them. I put it in the back of my mind and rounded the corner. Eddie was pouring himself some tea, watching me as I came, his glasses reflecting the light from the back window.

"Seems a bit closed off," He mentioned, his voice low. "But other than a few dark spots, his memory sounds in-tact."

I nodded, setting the platter on the counter. "It's the dark spots I'm worried about."

"Do you really think he could be missing things?"

"I don't know. I think I'm just preparing for it." I let my eyes fall, leaning up against the wall. "I've had memory problems before, too, related to my PTSD. I have dark spots and blurry ones, but mine don't matter. His might."

He nodded, raising his tea to his lips.

"I've already seen that he's forgotten memories." I grasped the sleeves of my jumper. "Significant ones. And I'm not sure what that means."

"He opens up more to you than either of us," He said.

"Does he?"

"Maybe because of your former relationship, or maybe because of your interest in Macie's case. But it's there."

"Yeah." I let my eyes close. I was mentally exhausted, feeling more and more anxious about Sholto's health and the case, feeling us slip farther into uncertainty. I felt like I didn't know where he was or what he was thinking, and I was starting to lose sight of what I thought was true. About him, about Macie, about the case, even about us.

But Eddie kept watching me. I heard his teaspoon clink onto its dish, accompanied the soft smell of sugar and milk.

"Talk to him."

I glanced over, accepting the responsibility with a soft shoulder.

* * *

We decided to get some early sleep, heading upstairs not long after the sun had set. The stairs looked overwhelming, but somehow we had made it. My room was the first door on the left from the stairs, and Sholto's was down on the right, separated by a few spare feet of hall. The whole upper level was filled with loose air, windows shedding the shadow of the streetlights throughout my room, bringing the rain in with it.

I quickly skipped over to pull shut the glass, locking it out of habit and securing it just for safety's sake. I was right on the lip of the roof, and for a split second I considered how easy it would be for a burglar to slip through, or a teenager to slip out. But I didn't remain there for too long. Eddie had left your duffel in the middle of the bed, so I unfolded my sleeping clothes and quickly change, giving a short thanks to myself for packing warm trousers. The windows had left the room completely chilled.

After waming myself, I made quick use of the bathroom and returned to my case for my mobile phone. You had promised to let me know when you were headed in and out of the flat, but you hadn't sent me any text yet, so I decided to be the bigger person and text you first, putting my duffel at the foot of the bed to fold my legs underneath myself.

_Trying to sleep early, bit of a long day. Be sure to reapply that antiseptic when you get home._ - JW

There was a short creak outside my door, and there appeared Sholto, not yet dressed for bed but his leather jacket been removed. "John."

"Yes?" I looked up at him. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." He stepped inside. "I seem to have left my toothpaste back at your flat."

"Oh, no problem, you can borrow mine." I leaned foward into the duffel, and Sholto quickly passed in front of the door, closing it quietly and locking it behind him.

That one distinct click immediately caused the hair on the back of my neck rise. I froze, glancing back up at him. He held my eyes for a few moments, his brow furrowed, and I realized just how angry he looked. He kept his hands behind him, taking due stock of me, positioned with my neck exposed by my loose jumper.

"I know what you're doing." He said, his tone flat.

"I'm guessing you don't actually want toothpaste?" I muttered.

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't appreciate people keeping me in the dark. Specifically when it has to do with my own health."

I paused. "We were just trying to help you, Sholto."

"If you wanted to know something, you should've just asked me."

"We were afraid to upset you, or worse."

"Ironic."

He gently milled his jaw, still watching me with a glint of steel in his eyes. I repositioned myself to sit facing him, letting my hands sink into the sleeves of my jumper, bundling within the thick fabric. I was afraid to say anything more, so I waited, watching that steel slowly fade out of sight. What replaced it seemed to me like smooth wax, flexible and flaky, and he stepped away from the door.

"I don't like this, either." He said, his voice gone soft. "I dislike being unable to trust myself. I've spent too long worrying about my health to have something like this destroy everything I've worked for."

I stood. Sholto still seemed distant, and I didn't try approaching him, but I felt as if it were more respectful to stand. He watched me, his confidence slowly dissipating into the space around him, and gently unlocked the door.

"Goodnight, John."

He opened the door, making it out into the hall before I called after him, coming into the open doorway and placing my hands on either side of the frame.

"Wait, James."

I looked up at him as he turned, his glass eyes shining in the shadow of the rain. I immediately felt as if a levee had broken. A storm woke in my chest, I felt the rain run in long streams under my skin, its color reflected in the color of Sholto's breath. He was just a step away, looking down at me just the way he used to, and my voice caught in my throat

"James." I repeated, barely able to manage a whisper. "We'll figure this out."

It sounded disappointing and sour in my mouth, but James didn't seem to mind. He turned his shoulders toward me for a moment, holding fast to my gaze.

"Thank-you, John." He answered.

I slid my hands lower on the frame, hesitating. "Good-night, then."

"Good-night."

He moved down the hall, and I closed the door after him, pressing my back against it and staring out at the rain-streaked windows. I was going to be sick.

My head was throbbing, whirlwhinds ripping thoughts down like trees. I slid onto the floor, pressing my knees up against my chest as my mind reeled, dizzied with my thoughts, overwhelmed with everything that was happening and what hadn't happened and what could. I couldn't help but let my hands shake; my body didn't know what else to do about this assault, and I wondered how he could destroy me so easily with nothing a glance.

Everything in me seemed to be screaming simeultaneously, and the pain in my leg flared, I had to steady myself with my palms braced against the floor. I exposed my neck to the chill, breathing in deep, letting myself still, refusing to be driven into a panic by nothing at all. Something about just his being here had made me vulnerable to anything he did, anything he said. I had told myself that I would be prepared for him, but maybe I wasn't - maybe I never was.

We hadn't spoken in months. Maybe that was for the best. We hadn't seen each other for years. Maybe that was why I got better. I knew he had changed, but every so often I saw little glipses of him, the Sholto still trapped in his own desert, radiating heat so strong it made my mouth go dry. I knew that it would be difficult, but now I was isolated, trapped once again, with no one to run to and no one to hear me.

_What was wrong with me?_

* * *

High all the time to keep you off my mind. (Ooh-ooh, review-review.)

I think it's super cool to hear you guys' theories, especially for those who've read Asphyxia before this. (I said the plot was self-contained and it is, but there are still some themes that are specifically written to complement those in Asphyxia, let's see if you can spot them.)

Next update Sunday.


	15. Chapter 15

This is why chapter-a-day didn't work. These chapters are fricking huge.

This is the point where things start coming to light but it's also the part where things become more complex. Mind the warnings and trust me. It's gonna be okay.

(Also, tell me how you feel.)

Enjoy.

* * *

The moonlight rustled the water as the waves chopped against the shore, spreading white drops of ice across the warm sand. They reached up to nip my bare feet, and my toes curled in; behind me, the desert breath stung my neck, and before me, the chill of the water drew me in. I stepped forward, letting the water envelop my ankles and then my knees, the sand dropping off into rough, rocky darkness.

I waded out farther, feeling the current snagging at my arms, running its teeth against the soles of my feet. The cold made my entire body shake with such violence that everything around me rattled. The rush of the water filled my ears, and I was pulled along with it. The rocks became slippery with moss, and wherever I tried to catch a hold, the current would pull me farther. I started to surge, my feet continuing to slip along the bed, continuing to drop until my head barely made it past the surface.

Dirt and grime stung my eyes as I tried to keep my head afloat, surrounded by nothingness. My arms grew stiff with the cold. I coughed up water and blood, rocks raking against the inside of my chest, cold driving knives into my fingertips and the soles of my feet.

They were coming. Up from the darkness below me, grey creatures slowly drifted toward the surface, their sparkling eyes gaping at my kicking feet. I tried to calm, tried not to make too much noise, taking deep breaths and plunging my head under to watch them. They began a slow circle around me, jaws opening and closing, eyes trained and narrow. They glided through the water like birds, air rising like smoke from their nostrils, teeth glistening.

Suddenly, I was yanked under. One of the creatures had bitten down on my leg, and I could see the blood around me as he pulled me down, dragging me towards the rocks. I kicked against his head, but his jaws were iron, and I couldn't break free. I struggled to see through the funnel of blood and bubbles and inky, black water.

The beast brought me to an enclave of rocks, pushing me under and spitting me up again. My torso was thrust up into an opening, and I desperately grabbed onto whatever there was to touch. I felt my hand snag something, and I pulled myself up, coughing and sputtering out water from my mouth and nose. My leg was mutilated and bloody, but I managed to crawl up the rough bank on my elbows, crying with pain as the rocks sliced into my palms and wrists.

I was surrounded by stone on all sides, trapped inside a cave with no sign of an exit. I got as far away from the watery opening as I could, but as I met the wall, it moved around me. The feeling struck me with nausea.

I glanced up. The entire ceiling was pulsing and wriggling, covered in gnawing, clicking insects, glowing a yellowish green that filled the cavern. Their light illuminated blood, bones, and leftover flesh littering the floor; fingers, ears and tongues, strands of hair, skulls snapped in two, full human jaws and heads missing them. More of the yellow bugs were filling the crevices of the carcasses, and I could see their white larvae pouring out of the bones and the pieces surrounding me. I quickly kicked the nearest away, shrieking and trembling with fear.

To my cries, the bugs flew up into the air, buzzing around and pushing themselves against my face. I covered my mouth and nose, but they still bit against my hands and tried to sqirm themselves into my ears, considering me just another one of their human meals. But there was a sloshing sound from the water, and soon the bugs retreated back toward the ceiling of the cave, leaving me with their larvae alone on the ground.

The water convulsed and shook, parting to reveal the head of one of the creatures. Its sea-glass eyes gleamed, shimmering with greed, and it threw itself forcably from the water. It landed on its belly on the rock, its body changing shape before my eyes. Its fins gripped the rocks with slimy fingers, its jaws slimming down into the profile of a man, his great silvery belly rising from the ground, a pronounced spine cracking as it stood upright.

I pushed away from it as hard as I could, but it crept up at me, slowly, relishing in every step. I pressed against the wall, now free of the bugs but oozing with blood and waste. The beast was upon me, his slimy hands sliding across my skin, pinning me against the ground. His tongue left a stream of residue from my neck to my mouth, tasting me, vibrations and groans growing out of his chest. I was sick with horror, scraping my nails against his rubbery shoulders, trying to kick him off or scrape through his skin, but I was helpless, pinned against the stones.

His teeth sank into me, and I could feel my muscles tearing apart, blood vessels burting and skin peeling back, his teeth only going in deeper. Pain slowly melted into numbness, the fear finally fading into a buzzing radiation, the glow of the insects and their clicking teeth filling my ears.

* * *

My arms were covered in blood. We had several bad injuries that night, and the blood had caked my shoes to the point that I could feel my feet sloshing in my boots. My shirt and trousers were ruined, drenched in fluids and sweat. The infirmary was filled with sleeping and groaning soldiers, recovering from injuries all along the scale of intensity. I stripped the disgusting gloves off my hands and replaced them with another pair, heading back into the assessment room.

Sholto had insisted that he remain there rather than take up a bed in the infirmary. There were three other patients there, two asleep and the third recieving her latest layer of bandages from Eddie Hawber. I gently brushed past him to get to Sholto, sitting with his back angled by his pillows, his eyes fogged over with thought.

"Has someone already seen you?" I asked. I glanced around for a patient sheet, but with the influx not all of them had gotten done.

He glanced up at me. "Yes. I just need a redressing."

"I was going to do him after I finished with Olivia." Eddie said, looking over.

"I'll do it." I reached over to grab the extra roll of medical gauze and set it on the table beside Sholto. "You need to sit up."

He did so, leaning forward onto his elbows while I gently stripped off the temporary layer of gauze that Macie had dressed him with when he first came in. Underneath were several shrapnel gashes littered around his left shoulderblade. The larger ones had already been stitched, but were now beginning to ooze. I took the antiseptic from Eddie's supplies and put a bit on my glove, beginning to lather it generously around Sholto's exposed back, feeling the warmth of his skin permeating through the fabric of my gloves.

We said nothing to each other. My heart was burning just to be near him; when we had lost contact with his unit, we had all the reason to believe he had been killed. The troops were out-of-contact for three excruciating hours until reinforcements could reach their position, and even then, they only escaped by the skin of their teeth. We had prepared the med ward for the worst, and we got the worst. I doubted the blood stains would ever make it out of the floor, and I doubted that I would ever be able to wash out the stabbing terror that I had experienced when those radios cut out.

Sholto watched me, his glass eyes running over every inch of me while I avoided his gaze. Yes, I was angry. I was furiously angry, so angry that I had to be careful not to press against his back while I was spreading the antiseptic. I knew I had no right to be, but somehow that made me even angrier. Sholto and I had become closer. Much closer. And I didn't realize just how much closer until I thought I had lost him. I was sick. I was beside myself. But now, I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

I closed up the antiseptic and turned to return it, only to catch sight of Eddie staring intently at his patient. I had already known that the two had been involved, but I had never seen much evidence for it. Now they hovered a breath away from each other, Olivia nearly in tears and Eddie seeming even more serious than usual. He turned to me behind his tiny spectacles. "Do you...?"

"Your business, your problem," I waved him off and grabbed the tape.

Eddie immediately began kissing Olivia, and I turned back to my own patient before things became too awkward. Sholto blinked at them, then glanced at me, seeming a bit confused, but I refused to answer him at all. Soon enough the pair had gone, leaving only Sholto and I and two other sleeping soldiers. I was grateful and spiteful at the same time.

I spread the bandages across the affected area, and Sholto turned back to look at me again. "John."

I had no desire to talk to him, but I didn't want to seem disrespectful, either. "Does this hurt?"

"No." He kept watching me. "Why are you angry?"

I tsked. "Lean forward a bit more."

He did, looking forward again. I reached back for the tape, gritting my jaw as I began.

"I thought you were dead."

He turned his head. "You can't possibly be blaming me for that."

I gritted harder. "I thought you were _dead_, dammit."

Sholto said nothing. I finished the taping and started on the gauze, reaching up around his chest in order to get the bandages all the way around his torso and shoulder. He wasn't watching me anymore; his eyes had found the patients on the other side of the room, sidetracked by the shadows and the smell of antibacterial cream. A few people were beginning to clean in the other room, burning some extra energy before trying to sleep. I knew it would be a hard night for everybody, but we all had our ways of dealing with the stress. For some, it was to clean. For others, it was to rest. For me, it was to redress wounds and write up patient sheets that never ended up getting done.

As I finished, he stretched around to make sure the bandages would stay in place, then swung his legs off the cot. "You should stay in the ward for the night, Sholto." I warned. "That way we can make sure your wounds are redressed tomorrow morning."

"I'll come back tomorrow morning." He said. "I'm going."

"As your doctor, I in-"

"You should come with me."

I blinked up at him, and he responded with a straight expression, his eyes echoing with the request.

Rage bubbled up in my chest. "Four hours ago, you were dead. You know what that means, right?"

He started to speak, but I cut him off.

"No, fuck it. You obviously don't."

He turned his shoulders toward me, his brow furrowing. "W-"

"I'm sorry, Major, but as soon as you invite me to your bedroom we're no longer on professional terms." I spat, careful to keep my voice from carrying. "You obviously don't understand how _horrified_ I was, Sholto. How worried I was about you. Consider this an enlightenment."

"We're on the warfront, Watson." He bit back. "You can't possibly be angry at me for doing my job. I didn't come here to entertain your pathetic whims."

"I never asked you to." I snapped. "But could you get out of your own head for five fucking seconds and acknowledge that you are not the only person here who is trying to get by."

"Oh, please. You're a bloody doctor. What authority do you have to tell me that when I'm on the fucking battlefield actually _accomplishing_ something."

"Just because I'm not running around getting myself fucking shot at doesn't mean I'm not fighting a war." I hissed. "But while I'm back here worrying about your fucking life, all you care about is yourself. It's always about you, always about what you do and what you need and what you expect you deserve from me. Real soldiers fight for their country. You seem like you're just fighting for yourself."

Sholto's face twisted, his features becoming more prominent, his bright eyes narrowing and sparking with anger. "Don't you fucking say that to me."

"You're a selfish bastard," I snarled.

He became dark, and the room faded around him, becoming a thin tunnel with him at its face, his fists balling at his sides and his chest becoming fuller and fuller. His nostrils flared, jaws exposing glistening white teeth. Yellow insects pulled out from the cracks in the ceiling, lighting his skin with a sick yellow pigment, draining it of its health, becoming slippery and slimy, blood covering his hands and his arms. He overwhelmed me, throwing me against the ground, and pain raced through my side, his teeth digging into the soft flesh of my neck, shrieks curling from my lips and mingling with his breath.

Pulsating heat began in my stomach and spread outward, causing my limbs to curl against themselves. I thrashed and pulled at him, trying to get him away, kicking and heaving, feeling my head spin until I could hardly stand it anymore. Darkness swirled with yellows and greens, flashing images of gunfire and dripping blood, stains across the floor of the med ward and my own bed sheets, rubbed off from my hands and feet, my socks soaked with blood, streaming down my face and neck. It was surrounding me, and it was cold; I was wading in it, coated in it like thick tar, slowing my movements, thrusting me back into the light.

"John, wake up."

I could still feel his hands on me, gripping my arms, and I desperately kicked away from him. I briefly heard an _umph_ as my heel connected with his side, and his hands loosened. I pressed myself against the headboard, illuminated by streaks of blue rain. The yellow paint had faded into a sick gray. My heart and head were pounding, and my mouth tasted like blood. I slumped against the bed, gripping my arms against my chest and struggling to breathe.

"A-ahh, fuck," I coughed, pressing my palm against my breast. "F-fuck,"

"What do you need?"

His voice nearly sent me into another frenzy. Tears flooded my eyes and I pitched forward, coughing invisible water out of my throat. I was already feeling lightheaded, and if this continued much longer, I was afraid I would pass out. "Med," I heaved, folding myself over. "Meds, i-in the-" I hacked, knitting my shaking fingers in with my jumper. "F-fuck,"

"Duffel?" He leaned toward me. "Your meds?"

I nodded, closing my eyes tightly. I heard him stand, and I latched onto the sound of the duffel unzipping, leaning back against the headboard. He knocked one of the tablets into his hand, offering it to me alongside the water-bottle I had left beside my bed. I swallowed it with some difficulty, having to press my hand against my mouth to keep from vomitting it up again. I then took a short drink from the bottle to cool my stomach, settling back against the pillows and willing myself to calm down.

As my heart rate slowed, the room became quiet again, only the pace of my breath upsetting it. Sholto was seated beside me, watching carefully as I slowed, his eyes uncharacteriscally soft. I could feel the warmth of his hand, although it rested still a few inches from mine on the bed. My jumper had fallen a bit off my shoulder in our wrestle, and it somehow made me feel incredibly exposed, having my neck hanging open to the night air. But he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were on my eyes, and nowhere else.

I rotated my jaw, meeting his gaze cautiously. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize." He shifted. "How are you feeling."

I took a deep breath. "I'll get better."

He nodded. "Do you want more water?"

I took the bottle, carefully lifting it to my lips and drinking in small sips. I then handed it back, and he set it on the bed-table. There had never been a time when I was more thankful for the Xanax kicking in so quickly. My stomach still felt a bit off-center, but my lungs returned to semi-normal capacity within a few minutes, and my hands stopped shuddering. However, it was replaced with a jittery sort of feeling close to soreness. I reached up to correct my hair and jumper, then let my head slide deeper into the pillows.

Sholto was still there, still watching, looking concerned. He set his arm against the edge of the bed. "You were talking in your sleep."

Dammit. "Oh."

He nodded, and in the dim light I could see his grief. "It was me, wasn't it."

I closed my mouth. One of my heartstrings was plucked, and that meant that I wasn't going to be sleeping until after this conversation was finished. I moved into a more comfortable sitting position, leaning halfway against the pillows and watched him. He turned toward the window, watching the rain run across the glass, his brow knitted up into a pained expression.

"Sholto," I started.

"I know it was." He said. "I knew it even before you left. I did this to you."

"No, Sholto."

He looked at me. "Don't lie to me." He said.

"I'm not lying to you."

"This is my fault."

"_Sholto_."

I reached out to touch his arm. Somehow, it wasn't as electric as I had imagined it'd be. He just glanced down at it, unsure of how to respond. I held it there, leaning forward a little to catch his eye again, drawing it up to meet mine.

"I have an illness. You're not responsible for an illness."

"I mistreated you."

"You-"

"No. I mistreated you."

I bit my cheek. "There were plenty of other factors."

"I understand if you want to move past it, John," He said, "But don't pretend like it didn't happen."

It hurt, but I nodded.

He let his head sag toward me, looking down at my hand on his arm, his eyes flicking back and forth. I could feel his guilt like a stone in my chest, and it grieved me. I could only imagine the grief he felt, first believing that he was somehow invalidated out of helping his friend, and second believing that he had somehow caused his other friend to be invalidated. I knew the thought would crush me, but I hadn't been forced to recieve the public punishment for a dozen horrendous deaths I wasn't responsible for. It made my head spin, and I tightened my grip on his arm, letting my fingers curl and brush gently against his skin.

"Look, Sholto." I leaned in. "What you did was wrong, but I've forgiven you. You know that. I told you that."

"And that's the reason why you wake up in a panic," He said, "Shrieking my name."

"It's just because you're here."

"Oh, good. I feel much better."

"That's not what I meant."

"Maybe I should leave, then. If my being with me makes you this anxious."

I squeezed my eyes shut, sucking in a breath. I was trying, but the stress was too much, and my lungs were starting to fail again, even against the Xanax. Sholto noticed this immediately and pulled his arm away, helping me settle back down, leaving his hand hovering on my shoulder. I swallowed hard. I couldn't fall back into panic now, that would just prove Sholto right, and I would never be able to repair what that would break. I had to get past this.

Letting my eyes slide open again, I moved my hand up to grip Sholto's. His eyes flickered to it, then back to my face, searching it for any sort of negativity, but I put my chin against my chest and looked back.

"Listen to me," I whispered.

He leaned foward a bit more, bracing himself beside my arm.

"You hurt me." I said.

"Hurt you," He repeated.

"You were angry, and you were wounded. You were dealing with grief, war, and loss all at once, and you had no way to deal with any of it except to take it out at something, at someone. You... pushed me around, shouted, hit me, threw me into tables and counters and cabinets, knocked me to the ground, shoved me, slapped me, and said all kinds of derrogatory things to me. And, Jesus Christ, I couldn't have lived without you."

His eyes went cold as stone, his lips parting just enough.

"I knew that you didn't mean any of it. I knew that you cared about me. Alright? I knew that you were better than what you did to me."

"Don't talk about me like I'm worthy of respect," He said.

"You weren't." I replied. "You deserved no respect for what you did to me. You have no excuses. But that period didn't last forever, and you changed. You became better. You are not the same person who did those things to me. I can see that. Why can't you?"

He looked at me, broken. "Because it's not true."

I gripped his hand tighter, brushing my thumb across his fingers.

Lightning briefly illuminated the room with harsh whiteness, and thunder clapped overhead. I felt Sholto tense up, then he glanced toward the window, listening to the soft pattering of the rain on the glass. I could see the scars trailing down his face, deep-set and knotted with pain, and for a moment I considered my own scar, on the front of my shoulder and its twin on the back. Both of us had left that battlefield changed not only externally, but internally. But I could recognize Sholto, even past his scars. I wondered if he could recognize me, too.

I could feel the Xanax flowing again, and the time of night began to catch up with me. Sholto turned down, running his eyes along my face. "Do you want me to stay here for the night?" He asked.

"That's not necessary," I replied, my eyes drooping. "I should be good until the morning."

He nodded, but was still hesitant to move. "I'll wait until you're asleep, then."

"Thank-you, James."

Another bolt of lightning, and thunder again shook the air. Sholto's hand gripped my shoulder, and I gently moved my thumb across. Almost immediately I felt it loosen, and then, there was the electricity. But it wasn't shocking or painful. It was a warm blurring of my senses, an easy chemistry that put my mind at ease and uncoiled my stomach. My eyes slid closed, and my breath stilled.

* * *

I was in the water. I was struggling, kicking my feet, bleeding from my mouth and nose. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep my head above the water. You were nowhere in sight, nowhere in mind, and I was alone, surrounded by darkness and huge, slippery creatures following my scent. But the cold began to change. The desert breeze now reached me, and it filled my lungs. The creature slowed its circle, and I watched it, letting my kicking calm, and as it did, my head began to sink. Water poured into my chest, dead silence filled my ears, and it was morning.

* * *

I feel irrational, so confrontational. To tell the truth I am getting away with reviews.

(Tell me how you feel.)

Next update Thursday.


	16. Chapter 16

This chapter may not be as clean as others because it's frigging huge and I didn't have much time for editing this week but I apologize in advance.

Thanks for you guys' support, I'm ultra glad you're enjoying this.

* * *

We had planned to leave in the morning again, hoping to get back to Baker Street soon enough that we would be able to talk with you about any new advances. Getting to talk with Eddie and Theresa turned out not to be the holy grail we were expecting, but it had shaken the dust off of some of our memories of the war, and I was confident that Sholto would be a bit more help to us now. I caught him jotting down some things at the kitchen table before breakfast. More clues; the details of routes, a few names, one particular street that she preferred. He had a bit more height to his head, and I was glad for it. He was breathing easier, and so was I.

The station was buzzing with activity already. Our train wasn't the first, so there were passengers and departees thrown into the mix, and I had to look twice to make sure I got the right number for our train. But it seemed alright, and I was ready to be in the coach. A peaceful train ride and a nice cup of tea sounded like heaven.

Eddie and Theresa had insisted on seeing us off. "You boys give us a ring as soon as you reach the station in London, alright?" She said, fixing up the collar of my coat. "I want to be sure you two made it back alright."

"We will." I rearranged the duffel on my shoulder. "Thank you for having us."

"It's our pleasure!" She beamed. "Come visit us again soon, alright? And for longer this time. One night is just torturous."

I chuckled. "Alright."

She gave me a hug and pecked my cheek. "Have a good trip, doctor."

I nodded. She stepped back, and Eddie came a little closer, his spectacles sparkling in the light. "I'm not going to kiss you," He said, holding out his hand.

"Good, I was a little worried." I shook it. "Good to see you, Eddie."

"I'll be seeing you."

He nodded to Sholto, who tipped his head back, and then turned to link arms with his wife. Together they moved back toward the entrance, cutting through the current direction of the crowd, radiating brightness wherever they stepped. It seemed to get a little darker when they left, but it may have just been the absence of Theresa's bright yellow blazer. I gripped the strap of my duffel and went back toward Sholto and the tracks.

"We got the nine-thirty, didn't we?" He asked, glancing down the rails.

"That's right," I nodded. "It should be here any minute."

He turned toward the station clock, pursing his lips a bit and leaning against his case.

"You alright?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He replied. "Side's just a bit sore."

"We can go find a bench if you'd like," I offered.

"No, it's fine. It'll only be a little longer."

I watched him, becoming a little more like a doctor as I assessed his posture and speech, but he didn't seem to be in too much pain, so I didn't insist. He must've felt me looking, because he turned quickly and caught my eye, perking his eyebrow and looking me up the same way. I turned the opposite direction to keep from making a fool out of myself.

As I did, my eye caught on a young woman standing a few paces away near the edge of the rail. She had a smartphone in her hand, tapping quickly, and was wearing a loose black overcoat fitted around her waist. But what really caught my eye was her particular style of hair; falling to the square of her back in heavy dreadlocks, filled with colored yarn and beads. It was pulled up into a painfully complex-looking ponytail, a bit of a contrast to her sharp features and soft hazelnut-toned skin. She dropped her phone back into her pocket and placed her hands there as well, quickly glancing back to flash her eyes at me.

Sholto didn't notice her, but he did notice other things. He leaned away from his case, stepping a bit closer to me. His shoulders had broadened. "Stay near me."

I looked at him. "Hm?"

He didn't make eye contact, and I knew what that was code for. I let my eyes drift back to the rails and the surrounding people. "Two men, eight o'clock."

"Armed?"

"Possibly."

I took a breath. "What do we do?"

"Three o'clock. Now."

We stepped simultaneously, moving slow enough to appear casual but quick enough to put some distance between ourselves and eight o'clock. I kept my head down, only daring to look toward the rails, and heard the faint whistle of another train approaching; most likely ours. I wasn't sure what Sholto was planning, but if we kept moving like this, we wouldn't be in any place to board the train when it arrived.

"Are they stationary?" I asked.

He glanced back. "Stationary, but they're searching."

"Jesus," I breathed.

Someone seized my arm, and I nearly lost it right there. I spun around, knocking my duffel into Sholto, and began to pull away when I saw it was the dreadlocks woman. Her brown eyes were dark and serious. "Are you John Watson?"

Sholto was over me, his hand on my shoulder, watching the woman with a firm stare. She didn't even flinch.

"Are you John Watson?" She asked again.

I hesitated. "Who are you?"

"A friend of a friend." She released my arm. "Follow me."

"Why should we?" I asked, stepping back into Sholto.

She glanced around quickly, then reached her hand into her overcoat, producing a gun. Sholto jumped into action, but the gun wasn't hers to fire. She held it out, careful to angle herself away from the visible crowd, spinning the handle toward my hand. I understood immediately, and the weapon fit cold and familiar into my hand.

"Follow me," She said, and brushed past.

Sholto and I quickly exchanged glances, but when he didn't put up a defense, I followed after her, tightening the strap of my duffel and trying to appear as casual as possible. The woman cut through the crowd as easily as a scalpel, her hair bounding along behind her, thick and sturdy as a rope. Sholto kept his eyes open for the suspicious characters, moving toward the tracks but not quite toward us, still seeming confused. We had precious seconds before they realized where we had gone, and our helper was wasting no step. She swept straight toward the side of the building, the place where glass ceilings met concrete walls, leading us straight into the horizon between sky and stone.

A rusted iron door led us into a hall, lined with low-wattage bulbs that took us down. I was still using my cane, but once we encountered the stairs, I felt distracted enough just to hold the crutch in my hand rather than bother wedging my way through like an invalid. Sholto followed quickly - as quickly as he could - slipping easily through the door without a bag to weigh him down. I glanced back.

"Sholto, where's your case?" I asked, hesitating on the stair only to be urged forward by his hand on my back.

"It's tagged," He answered. "There are better times to worry about luggage."

We hurried after the woman, who was in no sense of the phrase slowing down for us. Her walk was fluid and pointed, head high, and I doubted she had even glanced back at us the whole time we had been going. I made a quick jog to make it back up to her, and Sholto came along behind.

"Where are we going?" I asked, trying not to lose my breath. "Who were those men?"

"I'll be guiding you to your train." She answered. Her voice was sharp and short, reminding me somewhat of an African dialect I had heard once before. "I can get you as far as Blackpool. From there, you'll need to take care of yourself."

"Who are you?" Sholto demanded.

"Names are irrelevant, Major." She pushed open another door, leading out into the stinging brightness. "We don't have much time."

She led us out into the maintenance terminal, wrapping around the side of the station and blocked off from the road by an ominous brick wall. She was jogging now, and I jumped to keep up, holding my duffel close to me as I quickly looked over the surroundings. Several different tracks went in various directions, interconnecting and weaving in patterns unfamiliar to me. I had to be careful where I stepped as I skipped across the lines, minding my footing over the rocky terrain. I could hear train whistles blaring, both near and far, and the rumble of their wheels as they approached.

Only a handful of men were scattered around the carriages, some doing repairwork for the cars closest to the station, others milling close to the building, but as we moved forward, they thinned. None seemed to pay much attention to us, if they even noticed us in the first place. The woman didn't bother them, either, but I did notice that she chose routes away from the workers rather than not, for reasons I didn't pick up on yet. I was starting to get spooked, and my temporary confidence was wavering. I fell back to stay closer to Sholto, still struggling a bit with the pace, but using his weakness to mind himself more aware.

"There are others," He said, low.

Sure enough, I noticed them, too. One man, clad in tight clothes the color of the dirt, came from behind one of the distant cars, walking parallel to us a few hundred meters away, then dipping back behind his cover. Another, further ahead, moved in and out of view like a ghost. For the first time, the woman looked back to check for us, her face serious.

"Hurry, there isn't much time." She repeated.

"Who are those people?" I asked, motioning to the area in front of us.

"Don't worry about those people," She said, and motioned with her jaw. "Worry about those people."

He hadn't been there before, but now, there he was. He was tall; almost too tall, with a heavy overcoat reaching to his knees. His hat shaded over his eyes, and underneath protruded a long pipe billowing smoke. He came with a trail of residue and cloud, his figure angled like the devil against a backdrop of gray and glass towering above him. Two more men dressed dark slipped in behind the trains, immediately filling me with dread.

"What is this?" I asked, my hands stilling at my sides.

"War, Dr. Watson." She answered. "It's come back for you."

We heard a shot from far away, and she made a sharp turn, ducking quickly behind a line of carriages and fluttering between them. Sholto and I fell in line behind her, our minds starting to wobble from the confusion of all of it, shoved back into action by the menacing figures falling into step behind us. We quickly crossed through the yard, losing ourselves within the rows and lines of cars, bypassing another handful of disguised men nearly blending in to the shadows of the cars they guarded. Sholto grasped my wrist and prodded me toward him, dragging me along behind him like a log behind a truck while I investigated these new characters. A few of them watched as we passed by, their gazes inquisitive, serious, skeptical.

James had his gun in his hand, and I had mine behind my belt. I felt that familiar sensation behind my ears, the hair on my neck rising as the faint smell of gunpowder reached me, electricity burning through my nerves in those delicate seconds before-

An explosion rocked the ground around us as a car erupted, spewing fire and debris meters into the air. A surge of heat and pressure hit us like a gust of wind, and the two of us buckled, nearly knocked off our feet by the shock. We were shielded from the blast by another car and had no injuries, but immediately a fierce pain sprouted in the back of my neck. Fear. That was a grenade; we both knew it was a grenade, and immediately we both realized who we were and what we had to do.

His body stopped responding. I had bolted a few paces ahead, using the fear adrenaline as a boost, but realized within a few seconds that he wasn't with me. "James." I fled back, holding his arm and trying to pull him forward. His eyes had gone glassy; acutely aware, watching everything around him with his jaw clamped tight, so overwhelmed with shock that his legs went numb. "James, please, we have to go-"

"That was-" He opened his mouth, breathing deep. "John, it's-"

"I know what it is, James, we need to go, now!" I pulled him harder, leaning him into a step, and his control began coming back. With it, his face melted.

"She's gone."

I turned to look; sure enough, where the woman once stood was a patch of empty rocks and naked rails. I stepped forward, away from Sholto, to check if she had just hidden behind the next car or gone down the way. Nothing. Not even the others were visible. Just us and the smoking, screaming train car.

Just meters in the opposite direction, another explosion knocked a carriage straight off the lines, and I could hear the alarms from within the station shrieking out onto the yard. I ran and shoved myself into Sholto's chest, forcing him to move backward, running behind the back of the car just as the gunshots started. It sounded like an automatic, something firing and clanging off the metallic surface of the trains. Sholto's initial shock was turning into intensity, but not as fast as I would've liked it. Behind the car, I nearly collapsed, and Sholto stood over me, examining the surroundings.

"It looks like there are some buildings over there," He said, motioning. "Let's try to make it."

I nodded, making a quick break for the next car. Without our helper, I felt a bit overcome with the mass of the train yard, but I knew it wasn't the time to second-guess myself or explore other options. Sholto narrowed down and made for the outcropping, taking shelter behind every car we came by, careful to keep his eyes on our rear while I kept eyes ahead.

A body flickered before us, moving swiftly from train to train, and I almost didn't have time to shout. "One!" I yelped, just as I heard the gunfire. Sholto seized the back of my coat and practically threw me into the wall of one of the cars, stunning me for a moment while he found his own ground.

"Jesus Christ," I heaved, falling onto my knee.

"I counted four to our flank," He said, leaning against the car. "We've got to keep moving."

"Dr. Watson."

His gun was in his hand, aimed directly in the face of our helper. With gunshots still ringing out behind her, she squatted down in front of me.

"Are you hit?"

"No, no." I stood back up, my knees a little wobbly, but still good. "Where the hell did you-"

"No time. Keep up."

She straightened and produced her own firearm from within her coat; a handsome weapon, handled with precision, lined up against the belly of the car and shot in the general direction of our assailant. She then skipped across a line, followed by me, followed my Sholto, his own pistol still at the ready. My own bore into my back, but I felt like I would crumble if I used it. No one around me had similar feelings. A train whistle blew, aggravatingly close.

A third explosion made Sholto tense, but we couldn't risk losing the woman again. The gunshots threatened us, and the man was getting closer. She shot near his position again, and it gave us a few seconds of an opening, but his next bullet passed just half a moment after Sholto made the cover of the wheels, and my nerves weren't going to take much more of an assault. I saw another body approaching the line, and I was already wheezing with the ache and pressure in my lungs; James was holding up, but there was a bead of sweat on his brow, and his eyes still didn't look quite right. We needed to get out of this, and fast.

We jumped between a few more cars, and the woman suddenly climbed up on the window of the carriage, kicking open the wide doorway just enough to slip inside. But before I could panic, she heaved the door open a few more inches and offered her hand. "Get in, quickly. They can't see you."

I took her hand and she pulled me in like I was a child, moving so I could wedge myself inside. Sholto followed after, his face contorted with the difficulty of his injured side, but managing it anyway. She then pushed the door closed as fast and as silent as she could, plunging us into darkness.

* * *

We didn't dare breathe louder than we had to, but in this tiny space, even the tiniest gasp sounded monstrous. The blackness was inky and swelling, and I felt myself gravitate closer to Sholto, reaching out for the fabric of his jacket and finding his hand by accident. Our helper flicked a lighter, illuminating her lips and chin while she found the window she wanted, peeling off some of the thick plaster to allow a beam of light to shine through.

Outside, gunshots still rang. A man ran past, then a second, their limbs tight and frowns cut deep into their faces. They shouted to each other, but their voices were so muffled by the train's exterior that it sounded like hollow mumblings. They passed, and the shots continued. But soon, there came running a Scottish officer, weapon trained, prying through the surrounding trains and helping to clear out whatever criminals there were left in the vicinity. Another train whistle blew, this one reasonably close.

The woman and her flicker-light settled, sitting herself onto a pile of boxes near the door, still watching the outside through the hole in the plaster-board, but now angling herself more open toward us. Breathing became a little easier, and I felt Sholto start to loosen beside me.

"Are we safe here?" I asked, quietly.

"Yes, you're safe." She turned. "They won't be able to tell this car from any of the others. You're in our hands now."

" 'Our'?" Sholto repeated. "Who is 'our'?"

She watched him, then glanced toward me. "I assumed it would be obvious."

"Are you with Mycroft?" I asked. "Or Miranda?"

Her face flashed with confusion for a split second, then washed clean. However, that one spark of suspicion made my stomach turn cold. "Miranda sent me, doctor."

The train whistled again, echoing throughout the car, and suddenly we were jerked forward, thrown back into a separate stack of boxes. The crash as they hit the ground made Sholto tense, gripping me closer with an arm around my back. I balanced myself on his chest, praying that the lights didn't happen to flicker on at that moment.

"We're moving?" Sholto asked, looking around.

"This train's bound for Blackpool." She said. "It's out of the danger zone. You'll be able to contact whoever you need to contact once there."

"Thank you," I said, a little breathless.

"But, why are you helping us?" Sholto asked.

"Orders, sir." She worked further at the plaster. "You should understand such."

He quieted, and the train rumbled into motion, steadily getting faster, jolting as it crossed separate lanes and navigating its own. Once we were away from the maintenance yard, the woman tore the plaster off the window, allowing light to drench through the darkness. Now able to see, I let go of Sholto and stepped clear of the mess of crates. He, on the other hand, sat down on them, running his hand lightly over the outside of his thigh, massaging his burning muscles with his hand still gripped in his opposite hand.

"You work for Miranda, then?" I asked, moving closer to the woman.

She glanced at me. She was working at the door, the light hitting her at such an angle that she looked a bit similar to Sally Donovan. She smelled like spices, smoke, and cheap cologne, her eyes crackling like a burning fire. "No." She answered. "But I've heard about you."

I furrowed my brow. "What do you mean?"

With a yank, she pulled the train door open just a few centimeters, letting more light stream in. "In Blackpool, you'll be able to contact whoever you need, but don't try to contact the authorities or the police." She said. "It will only complicate your situation and make it more difficult for you to get what you want."

"And what do I want?"

She glared at me, yanking the door open further. "You're on your own once you arrive. I'd give you five hours before someone causes you trouble. Try to get back to London as quickly as possible."

"How do you know so much?"

"I'm sorry, I can't help you, Dr. Watson." She stood near the entrance to the door, now. "It's not my place."

"What is your place, then?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson. I can't help you."

She holstered her gun and moved her hand toward the door, and that's when I stepped up. I made a lunge for her before she could make it out the door, grappling for a few seconds before pushing her against the loose crates, knocking her back into the wooden corners. She gritted her teeth together, not putting up too much of a fight, but looking incredibly pissed off beside the fact.

"Then, I'm sorry, I don't think I can help you," I replied.

"Let go of me, doctor." She snapped.

"Tell me how you know me." I responded.

"I'm much stronger than you are." She warned.

"Just _tell_ me, and I'll let you go."

She tsked. With a swift sweep of her leg, she caught me off-guard and off-balance, from there easily shoving me away into the boxes toward Sholto. I fell back, landing hard against the wood, crying out as one of the crates made its way directly into my thigh. Sholto was up, his gun trained on her, clicking off the safety as she straightened and brushed the dust off her coat.

"Remember what side you're on, doctor,." She said, and disappeared beneath the tracks.

* * *

There's a little piece of heaven, right where you are. The fact that you keep reviewing is what sets you apart.

Next update Sunday


	17. Chapter 17

Sorry I missed a rotation but hopefully these little snippets will make up for it yea

(If anything is confusing let me know I'll clarify)

(Continue telling me how you feel I absolutely adore hearing all your theories. And yes, I do pay attention when I'm writing in those little details, so believe me when I say I glow when someone notices them.)

Enjoy

* * *

I nursed my leg, stretching it out gently as the train continued to rock. Sholto watched the landscape drag by through the little corner of light with a deep-set frown. He was unhappy; he had been unhappy since the train started rolling, but it was showing particularly well now.

"Are you sure you're alright?" He asked, for possibly the twelfth time.

"I'll live. I don't think I've torn anything." I brushed against my thigh. It throbbed rhythmically, but as exhausted as I was, it was hard for me to differentiate between the pain from a possible muscular injury from the pain during a psychomatic episode. So I kept massaging it and tried my best to relax. Of course, _relaxing_ wasn't an easy thing to do at the moment. I was still reeling with the train station explosions, the grenades, the firearms, and those odd men hiding between the train cars. There was something cold in the pit of my stomach that made me think that I had waded far deeper than I had meant, but the pain reminded me that I was still here, still breathing air, still pumping blood, and still stuck in the middle in some grand shitty mess.

Sholto flexed his jaw; I could see it shift in the pale light, and he moved toward me. Without him securing the window-flap, the light cut down to a minimum. I could only see a little bit of sunlight from underneath the door and a bit through the cracks in the glass panes. Before I realized where he was, James crouched down in front of where I was seated on the floor, gazing down at my leg.

"When I was injured, several of my muscles were overexerted," He told me. "I know some massages that may help."

"I'm fine," I replied.

"It's been hours and you're still pawing at it like a limp fish."

He reached out to touch me, but I batted him away.

"That's not necessary."

"Just let me show you."

"I'm quite alright, thank-you."

He made a sound in-between a sigh and a huff, settling back against a wooden crate. He said nothing, and I said nothing, dipping back down into silence.

The jostling of the train was at first nauseating, but now seemed a bit therapeutic, like a physical white noise to keep me from mentally straying too far. I adjusted myself against my own crate, forcing myself to stop messing with my leg, resting my arms across my stomach and folding up the good leg against them. My cane rested beside me, just in case I wanted to stand, but somehow I figured I would be staying on the ground for as long as I could come up with good excuses. Your duffel was crumbled in the corner, near the back window, with the fragments of my cell phone inside. Technology, as lovely as it was, didn't hold up very well when it gets smashed against the side of a train car.

"Blackpool isn't as far as London, right?" I said, trying to think optimistically. "So we shouldn't be in here for much longer."

"This isn't a passenger train, it's freight," Sholto replied. "Freight trains are slower than passengers. At least, that's what I assume. I know next to nothing about trains."

"Neither do I."

"I think it's safe to assume that once the train stops, we'll be in Blackpool." He continued. "But if not, we should still be able to contact someone who will be able to get us back to London."

"If we don't stop in Blackpool, though, would it still be safe?"

He quirked his brow. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"The woman said that Blackpool was out of the 'danger zone', but that even there we would probably have trouble after about five hours." I recounted. "Or, did she mean something else?"

"All I remember is that she said this train was bound for Blackpool, and that we were out of the danger zone." He paused to think. "It could be either. The best would be to aim for Blackpool and hope for the best."

"Sounds good." I shifted, gritting my teeth at the jolt of pain in my thigh. Maybe this was a muscular injury, after all. "I can't get up."

Sholto looked at me again, softly this time, and stood. He took my hand and helped me start up, then slipped his arm around my waist to get me the rest of the way. I scrunched my eyes closed, physically shaking with effort to keep myself from whimpering. He moved one of the boxes from off the stack so that I could sit down, setting me down easy and stretching my leg into a new, less formidable position. He then sat down on the box opposite mine, my knee in-between his.

"I asked you not to," I said, squirming.

He put his hands on his elbows. "If you can't even stand up, how do you expect to make it through Blackpool? I'm sure you'd rather have me touch your leg than carry you in public."

I pursed my lips.

"Just let me try. You can have a pound of my flesh if it doesn't work. But at least let me try."

I braced my hands against the edge of the crate and bit the inside of my cheek. My eyes had adjusted, and I could now see his hands in his lap, wide with thin thumbs, scarred and calloused around the knuckles. The last thing I wanted was for his hands to be on me in the dark confines of the carriage, but if any reconciliation at least he couldn't see how white my skin had gone. "Fine."

"Twist your leg a little outward."

I obeyed, fixing myself to open toward him, biting both cheeks and momentarily forgetting how to breathe. He laid his hands down at about the midpoint of my thigh, his thumbs pressing into the muscle until I grunted, my own hands gripping the crate as hard as I could. It burned, horrifically. He rotated his wrists with the prod of his fingers, and it grated on my nerves. I leaned my head back and tried not to shriek. But, past the discomfort and true to his word, as his hands worked up toward my hip, the pain behind them began to fizzle, just slightly. Just slightly.

* * *

The train whistled its way through the stormy clouds of Blackpool, cutting through the fog to land in what looked like a freight station. The tracks seemed to get rougher as the train slowed, each individual bump pumping the car vigorously back and forth. Sholto and I stood beside the corner of light, him studying the surroundings through the opening, and I trying not to lean too heavily on his as I regained my composure, gripping the handle of my cane tight.

We pulled to a stop, the stillness vibrating through us uneasily. Separate cars and walls blocked most of the view, but that also meant we were pretty well sheltered, too. Once he was satisfied that the coast was clear, Sholto stepped up to pry the door open, barely managing to pull it far enough to fit his chest through, stepping and then hopping down with favor to his bad side.

"C'mon, John, it's not too far down." He turned and extended his hand to me. "Just drop."

I kneaded my wrists. "You're much bigger than I am," I replied. In fact, I had never quite felt so puny and thin as I did looking down at the gravel from the door of the train-car, with my leg thundering in the back of my mind.

"You'll be fine," He insisted. "Hand me your cane."

I did so, carefully shuffling toward the open doorway to jut a shoulder out, holding to the handle of the door. And although my grip was firm, the train's final whistle spooked me. It jolted forward and began a slow crawl, and I panicked, watching the ground move beneath me and Sholto start to walk along beside the train.

"Hurry, before it speeds up, John." He said, firmly. "_Jump_, John."

I hesitated, my hands starting to shake.

"Fuck it, _jump!_" He shouted.

With a brief muttered curse, I reached out for Sholto's hand, leaning dangerously out of the car. With only one leg capable of holding myself up, I tried to hop down onto the ground, but it ended up feeling a bit more like a desperate dive, and my footing didn't hold. I landed, quickly sticking my bad leg to steady me, but it crumbled underneath me and down I went, pulling Sholto to his knees along with me.

I fluttered between the lines of laughing and crying, my thigh burning and my head reeling. "Jesus Christ."

"Don't look now," Sholto said, "But your duffel's on the train."

"Jesus _Christ_," I said again.

We both glanced up toward the train, slowly picking up speed, and all-of-a-sudden the duffel was the very last thing on my mind.

* * *

Somehow we managed to get ourselves out of the station without attracting too much attention, and although we were both a bit sweaty and smelled like rusted metal, we dodged the public eye. I limped along, my leg straining even with the cane, although I tried to cover it up best I could. Sholto still noticed. He directed me toward back roads, and when there was no-one around to see us, slipped his arm underneath mine and helped take some weight off. Close enough to carrying me, I figured.

"We just need to find a pay phone, somewhere." I said, gritting my teeth. My leg was starting to feel stiff, and I wasn't sure if I liked it. "There's a hardware store over there, why don't you ask if they have a landline."

He looked up at the store I was motioning to. "Only a landline?"

"Satellite signals are easily tracked and easily hacked. I have learned _some_ things living with a detective." I panted. "There's a bench outside."

Sholto helped me sit down, leaning my cane against my knee. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah." I breathed through my nose. Being out in the open was making me nervous, and I had no panic pills (they had all been in my duffel), which also made me nervous. Asphyxiating under Sholto's watch would not be good for either of us. "Hurry, please, James."

He turned and went into the store, walking as quickly and yet as nonchalantly as he could manage, and I clawed at the collar of my jumper.

* * *

You had instructed me to memorize Mycroft's number almost immediately after we first started living together for exactly this reason. Our vigilante had given us five hours before there was trouble. Mycroft got to us in fifteen minutes. Two men in pressed blue suits approached the store to meet us in the shop before I even got off the phone with him, and that was impressive, even in my opinion. Sholto was just happy that the weight was taken off his shoulders, but he knew that he still had a bit of a responsibility, in a sense. Regardless of Mycroft's people, he had to look out for me until he could get me back to you, and there was no arguing with him. He stayed close beside me, at all times, taking due stock of the unfamiliar men.

The men escorted us to a private air strip about ten minutes out of town, where a helicopter, prepped and ready to fly, stood humming. On-board was one of Mycroft's personal assistants and a private nurse who took her own liberty to examine my leg mid-flight. She gave me a pain-reliever and a pack of ice to help get more comfortable. When the nurse asked if Sholto needed anything, he insisted he was fine, but she gave him some pain-relief anyway, and a few minutes afterward he seemed a bit less irritable than before. I sat with him to my right and the PA to my left, but preferred to be as far away from her as I could muster, to the point that I let wrist rest just barely brushing against Sholto's. He didn't seem to notice.

The PA was taking notes and asking questions and getting in contact with the train company to get their records and find the things that Sholto and I didn't know – what yard the train was in, why the train departed so soon after emergency protocol. But other things we _could_ help with. "Approximately what time did you realize you had a tail, and what time did you hear the explosions? Could you determine what the men following you looked like? Could you determine what kinds of weapons they used?"

I answered the best I could, letting Sholto get a little bit of time to unwind, but while he unwound, he listened, too.

"Could you describe the woman who helped you?" The PA asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but James set his hand on my arm. I glanced at him.

"Maybe we should talk to Sherlock, first," He offered, giving me a difficult sort of look.

"Why?"

"You remember what she said about the police."

I hesitated. Sholto usually wasn't the one to undercut the use of government authority, but something about his demeanor made me second-guess it myself.

"We're not the police," The PA said, trying her best to sound reassuring.

"No, you're the British government." I replied, turning back. "I'm sorry. I think we're done for now."

"I'll have to tell Mycroft you won't comply."

"Then tell him." Sholto said. "John's finished."

* * *

After the PA was busy doing other things, I started drifting in and out of focus, my eyes drooping with sleep. Here, surrounded by suited guards and women in modest dresses and Sholto, the sense of danger dissipated and the fatigue trickled in. My eyes got dry and my head began sagging, my neck finally exhausted from being pushed all directions both on the plane and now on the helicopter. Near the end of the ride, I felt my temple resting snugly against James' shoulder. There was a small, foggy memory of Sholto easing my head down onto him, but I wasn't quite sure. There were plenty of other memories drifting around, and they might've gotten mixed up. Memories of the desert, helicopter rides like this one, the wind whipping through my clothes, Sholto's eyes stinging my throat, James' fingers brushing my palms.

* * *

You and your brother were waiting for us at the end of the runway, your hands hidden within your coat, his glossy with black leather. You two looked solemn, but not necessarily stressed; angry, but not necessarily pissed. A bit like a scene from a spy film, Mycroft tapping the handle of his umbrella, and you standing with your coat collar flipped up against the wind. Except, in the movies, the returning spies probably didn't feel like several horses had trampled over their limbs as they stepped from the aircraft.

Sholto went down first, now steady of foot and careful to keep close to me in case I needed anything. He offered a hand, but I waved him away. The painkiller had made it easier to walk and I was getting along fine with the cane. Plus, you would've been even less happy with me if the first thing you saw of us was Sholto helping me off the helicopter like some sort of medieval maiden.

"Only away for a day, and you're already starting wars," Mycroft tsked, swinging his umbrella.

"Not appreciated," I grunted back, looking at you.

I guess we both were expecting more of an emotional reaction out of you, or more of _any_ kind of reaction, but you remained cold and distant, as if I had done something offensive by disappearing. Your cheeks looked sunken and your lips were dry, but your eyes strung bright and alert, narrow. Not even your breath lifted your chest.

"They were bombers," Sholto said. "Like the ones we dealt with in Afghanistan."

"Are you positive they were Afghan?" Mycroft asked.

"I wouldn't forget."

He nodded. "Then, with that, I would assume you are Major Sholto."

"I am." James answered.

"A pleasure. Definitely." He shot you a look, then turned on his heel. "If neither of you are in further need of medical attention, I'll escort you back to your flat. We can have the rest of our discussion there."

Mycroft began a slow pace toward the idling car, waiting at the juncture between the airstrip and the road. Sholto glanced at me, then at you, then back at me; he sensed the underlying buzz between us and although he at first hesitated, he then excused himself to follow your brother, his way of passing off my baton to you. Mycroft himself opened the door for him, and he was grateful. He ducked carefully into the car, and Mycroft crossed over to the other side of the car, leaving you and I alone.

We shared a few moments of silence, gazing at each other. You were a stone wall. I have no idea what I was, but by the look in your eye, it wasn't anything important.

"Are you hurt?" You asked, but you already knew I wasn't. You had already looked across me and came back up empty. I didn't know why you bothered to ask.

"No," I answered.

"Good." You removed your hands from your pockets, quiet for another few moments. "And the major?"

"He's a bit sore, but fine." I said.

"Good."

You continued to study me. I tried to match your indifference, but it felt like my chest was overflowing, trembling. The baton had been out of Sholto's hands for mere seconds and already I felt incredibly vulnerable, ready to give out at any secon. I needed you to brush my fingers, to tell me you were worried, pretend to at least be half interested in me. But your coolness made me angry. Such a thick-headed bastard, Sholto and I almost got killed and yet the most you could do is play the part of detached detective. I didn't want the detached detective..

"John?" You said.

I shook my head and brushed past you. "We have work to do, Sherlock. Let's not waste time."

You turned as I passed, watching me for a few extra moments before following behind.

* * *

When it's over, and my heart breaks, and the review begin to show.

Next update Sunday.


	18. Chapter 18

I know I'm really horrible for not keeping up with the schedule. But to apologize, I'll give you guys two chapters this time around. And I'll try my hardest to get stuff done for Sunday, too.

* * *

Mycroft was gone. Sholto was showering. You were standing in front of me, and my hands were still shaking, but I had forgotten why.

You sat down at my side. "I asked Greg to pick up an alternate prescription." You said, still cool. "He should be here within a few minutes. Just stay calm until then, alright?"

Oh, of course. I had brought all my medication - my panic pills and even my regular medication - with me to Glasgow. There hadn't been much of it left anyway, so I had figured it wouldn't be too big a deal, but now that the duffel was still on-board a freight train in Blackpool, I was having trouble breathing.

Our conversation with Mycroft about the bombers had made me start thinking of our own safety here in London, of James' safety and Macie's safety, and I had to excuse myself before I worked myself too much. I had no relief this time. But as hard as I tried to reign in my thoughts, the shaking and the shocking pain in my thigh as mangling my concentration and doubling my frustration. You saw it easily and set your hand on my back.

I was still upset with you, but I was at the point where I would rather play pretend and accept your help than deal with the repercussions of a full-blown panic. I twisted at the waist and set my hand against your chest.

"Just relax, John, you're safe here." You whispered, pressing your lips against the corner of my mouth.

I folded my legs underneath me and laid back into the pillows, prodding you to follow me with my fingers at your neck. You let your kisses graze from my lips to my jaw, your hands gently brushing against my sides, nestling at the bottom of my ribs. Your palms were soft, warm. I slowly let my breathing even and my eyes slide shut, the scent of your hair overwhelming the rest of my senses.

You crawled up to lay beside me, wrapping your arms around me and rubbing the tip of my nose with yours.

But with that tiny gesture, my thoughts floated back onto Sholto. Shit. I couldn't push it from my mind, after all; not permanently, at least. I writhed, and you ran your hand along my arm to calm me, but now your touch was like the crack of a whip. I was guilt-heavy, as if I was hiding something from you, and your skin was a tease to the thin veil that kept the truth tucked away. I pressed the heels of my palms against your chest.

"Sherlock," I murmured, my eyes still pinned closed.

"Shh," You cupped my cheek. "It's alright."

"No, Sherlock." I took your wrist in my hand. "I-"

"You don't have to say anything, John."

"We need to talk, Sherlock."

"We can talk after."

You twisted your wrist from me, and I felt you against my waist, moving a bit closer to run your hand along my back. I took a breath, but no - I was breathing broken glass, and if there was any point that was best to tell you, it would be now. Before it became any more painful. Rip off the bandage.

"Sherl-" I pressed myself against you. "Sherlock, please."

"What is it, John?" You softly petted my hair.

"We need to talk," I repeated.

"Now?"

I curled my hands into your shirt. "Yes."

You lifted your head above mine, propping yourself onto your elbow and looking down at me. "Is it about this morning?"

I turned to face upward. "No."

"No?" You thought. "Is it about your health?"

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

I pushed myself up, ignoring the tightness of chest, until my back was resting against our wooden headboard and I could look easily at you. You, in response, pulled back, sitting with your legs underneath you, your dark hair tossled. My courage and sense of urgency faded quickly with the weight of the air. I could tell that you knew exactly what I was thinking about, but it froze on your tongue.

"About Sholto?" You asked.

I nodded in my eyes, locking them onto yours, watching the gears creak within your skull. You were quiet for just a few moments, but it seemed to stretch endlessly.

"Something happened in Glasgow," You said.

"Well-" I hesitated, sheepishly glancing toward my hands. I didn't know whether to feel frustrated or vulnerable or pathetic or any varied combination of those, and so all three assaulted me at once. "You could say that, I guess."

When I finally had the courage to look back at you, your face was damn near close to murderous. "What did he do to you." You asked, tone low.

I blinked. "Oh, no- No, Sher, he didn't do anything. He didn't do anything."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying to you. He didn't do anything. I swear. Why would you even-"

I watched you. Why did you automatically jump to assuming he had hurt me?

"I have no reservations about keeping Sholto under my thumb if that's what you want." You said, suddenly.

"What?"

"I can, you know, keep an eye on him. If you're uncomfortable with him being here."

"Uncomfortable?" I shirked. "Where are you getting this stuff?"

"I do have eyes."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Bit more hunched than usual, head down, leaving the neck of your jacket open," You listed. "Exposing palms, folding your legs, wearing lighter colors, moving quietly, moving slowly, a bit of a hypersensitivity to sound, acute anxiety, tense muscles, restless hands."

"Okay, what the hell are you going on about."

"All can be interpreted as physical expressions of submission, vulnerability, or fear."

My lips felt dry. "And what does that mean, Sherlock?"

"You're scared of something."

"Am I? Wow, you really are a fucking genius."

You rolled your eyes. "They increased significantly after Major-"

"They _increased significantly_ after Macie Lowdry was fucking _abducted_ by an _Afghan terror cell!_" I exclaimed. "Don't jump to conclusions just because-"

"Because what, John?" You snapped. "Because as soon as I mention Sholto you look at me like _that_?"

"Like what?"

"Like I've struck an old wound."

I breathed in sharply through my nose and wheezed out, "The only old wounds I have are yours."

Your jaw hung open for a silent second, then clamped shut, the veins popping in your neck. I didn't know why I said that. But my anger flared up, and I balled the sheets into my fists, trembling and flushed.

"Leave me the hell alone," I gritted my teeth. "Just get out. You're not helping."

"Fine."

You climbed off the bed, straightening your shirt and your hair, watching me with a dark glimmer in your eye as I curled back down into the bed. It felt like an ice cube melting down the back of my neck, and I shivered, feeling your glare on me but refusing to return it. Before you left the room, you came up closer to the bed, leaning forward a bit, and spoke quietly.

"I'll trust your judgment for now, because I haven't found evidence not to. But your illness has made you vulnerable, don't forget that. I have no argument with Sholto, and I'm grateful that he was able to get you back here. But he _ever_ lays a hand on you, I _will_ kill him."

You strode from the room, and my entire body went numb.

* * *

I chose not to stay alone for too long. I started feeling better after Greg brought me more panic pills, and having them with me helped me stir myself up enough to move. The sun was setting, and although I was still exhausted, I felt like it wasn't appropriate to fall asleep so early. Sholto was still awake, working quietly in the other room, and you had left almost an hour ago. I didn't really want James to have to be by himself, either. So I got up, washed my face, changed into fresh clothes, and joined him.

The mess was out of sight until I turned the corner from the kitchen into the sitting room. Your usual wall was covered in maps, post-it notes, and glossy photographs of people I didn't recognize, but rather than you standing investigating it, it was Sholto. At his feet were more maps and pages filled with writing, spread out in a wave around him, dotted with pens, pencils, and thick notebooks. Geography guides, military strategy textbooks, modern history leaflets, and manila folders with distinct red stamping on the front littered the carpet and the hardwood, scattered but still in a relative order.

He glanced at me when he noticed the shadow in the doorway. "I'm sorry about the mess."

"What are you doing?" I asked, stepping inside.

"Mapping." He replied. "Sherlock got all this for me."

I nodded, looking at it all as I sank into my armchair. It was monstrous, and a bit gave the impression of progress, which I was very glad for. "Mapping what, exactly?"

"Our routes, and Macie's routes, by what I can remember." He uncapped a brilliant red Sharpie pen and marked onto one of the maps taped to the wall. "For now I've lost the pages I wrote from Glasgow, but I can still remember most of it, and there's still more coming back."

"Good, that's great."

"I hope so." He turned and eased himself down onto the sofa, letting his eyes rest on me again. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine enough," I answered.

"Is your medicine helping?"

"A bit, yes."

He nodded, leaning back. He took up one of the geographies and only let his gaze waver to look down and flip through a few pages. "Lestrade said hello."

"Did he?" I shifted. "And how was that?"

"It was alright. He seemed like a level-headed sort of man. Although mostly he was just trying to distract from the fact that Holmes was baring his hypothetical teeth louder than an estranged lioness."

I pursed my lips. "I'm sorry about him."

He shrugged his head back and forth. "Did you tell him, then?"

My silence was my reply, and he looked back up at me.

"John?"

"It isn't the right time yet," I said quickly, wringing my wrists over my knees. "He was already worked up."

"You were worked up."

"We were both worked up."

"The longer you wait, the more worked up he'll be."

"I don't really see why he has to know in the first place."

James blinked. "He _is_ your partner."

"That doesn't mean I have to share _everything_ about my history."

"It sounds to me like you're trying to hide it."

"I'm not trying to hide it." I defended, turning my head away. "I just-" I paused, laughing a little through my nose. "What are the odds I would be getting a rake across the knuckles about communication from you, of all people."

"What are you implying?"

I looked at him long and hard. "You never exactly reacted well to communication."

He looked miffed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, that's right." I said, letting my voice get a bit softer. "You lost it."

"Lost what?"

"The night."

He studied me, and I studied him.

"What night?" He asked, quietly.

"The one I was telling you about, with Eddie and Gale, the communications corpsman." I answered. "I dressed your arm in the infirmary, but you insisted I dressed it in your dorm room."

"Oh, that. But I remember-" You hesitated, furrowing your brow. "I remember I hit you."

"Yes."

"You fell and busted your head on a cot rim."

"Yes, yes."

"What am I missing?"

"That's really all you remember?"

"What am I missing, John?"

My features bent sadly, shoulders drooping into the back of the chair. "We made up," I said, my voice dropping almost to a whisper. "I was angry, we were both angry. I tried to communicate, but not very well, and you tried to communicate, but also not very well. But eventually we met in the middle, somehow. I told you I was worried about you. You told me you knew."

His eyes got a little bigger, but I could tell it was coming back.

"That was when we went back to the barracks," He recounted.

I nodded.

"I guess the first part was more significant to me than the details," James admitted.

"Maybe."

"Although that sounds insensitive."

"No, it's alright."

"I don't think the communication ended too badly that time, though."

I laughed. "Maybe not for you, I got myself a busted lip and a bashed-up head."

But Sholto wasn't even listening. His eyes were glazed over, wide. At first I was afraid he was having some sort of complex panic attack, he was so still and silent. But then he turned, almost jerking, grabbing toward the pile of maps you had left for him. "Do you have a map of London?"

"Uh, somewhere, I'm sure." I braced myself to push to my feet. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Christ, why didn't I think of it before," He muttered, digging through the pile.

"Think of what?"

"Macie had a friend," He said. "A friend from London. Lower London. You told me you didn't know why Jandi would come to London."

"Yeah, we had no idea," I nodded. "Do you think-"

"He could have very well been trying to contact her. But what was her name." He pulled open a map. "Do you have a phone book?"

"Of course, I'll get it for you." I started up, limping toward your shelves.

"Thank-you. I only remember her from one time. It was right after what you were talking about. Macie was working graveyard, doing the paperwork for the lost soldiers and KIAs. She was talking about London. Dammit, I should've known."

I handed him the thick book. "Should've known what?"

"Laura. Ovwell? No. Orwell?" He flipped through quickly, his hands firmly grasping either side, driving up the scent of paper and ink. "Ovleen, that was it. She's a witch, works in lower London, has some kind of psychic shop or something. Macie met her in school. Wrote to her all the time. She said that she could always count on her to take care of her in a fix. Christ, there she is."

He pointed at an entry, and I squinted my eyes to read it. _Priestess Luna Ovleen_.

"Jandi knew about her. Jandi had met her. Jandi would have gone to her first. He came to London to find Ovleen." He stated, standing up.

"Then why wouldn't he mention her?" I asked. "Why would he still come to us?"

"I don't know, but something's definitely wrong. Maybe something happened to her? Maybe she knows something we don't."

"Well, then, we have to find her," I said.

"Right now," He nodded.

* * *

I'm gonna review ya, until you hate me.


	19. Chapter 19

We parked a block away, just in case, paying the cabbie and waiting until he drove off to begin walking. The last few rays of sunlight were now disappearing behind the buildings to the west, stormclouds billowing and blocking out the moon, casting an eerie gray haze above the street. The various street noises around us made me nervous, so I stuck near Sholto, keeping my eyes open to our surroundings while he stayed focused on our goal.

"There it is," Sholto muttered. "Creepy-ass place."

I looked. Ovleen's store had a dark, almost purple-looking sign that hung out above the sidewalk. It had neon lights, but they were shadowy, either dead or unplugged. I could barely make out the word "_Gator's Gullet_". Beautiful. The place definitely wasn't lacking in shock value.

"Do you think it's open? It looks pretty dark in there."

"Not sure, we can go check it out."

We approached the door as quietly as we could. I cupped my hands over the glass and peered inside. There was one light on in the very back, flickering an ugly yellowish-white, illuminating posters of pentagrams and lunar charts. The rest of the room was submerged in inky blackness. "I don't see anyone."

"The sign says it's open," Sholto pointed out. He pressed his hand against the door-handle and turned. It bent under his hand, opening easily, no locks, no alarms. "Well, that was easier than I'd expected."

Just as he said that, a huge caw made both of us nearly jump out of our skin. A cage in the corner of the room rattled, and I fumbled for the torch on my belt, shining it toward the sound. A birdcage with a rounded metal roof jostled and bounced with its inhabitant, a large- raven with a sharp, crooked beak. It watched us, tilting its head back and forth and crowing, butting its wings against the cage.

"Well, no one can sneak up on her," James breathed.

He moved forward into the store, and I walked further toward the bird, moving my torch back and forth between it and the shelves around it. Bird guides. Cabinets of food specialized for different types of predatory birds - falcons, ravens, hawks, even vultures. Other animal guides. Statues of animal spirits. "Interesting."

"It looks like there's another doorway back here," He said, his voice carrying.

I turned to move toward him, flicking through more areas of the room. A thick, dark purple carpet contrasted forest green wallpaper. Along the opposite wall from the raven stood rows and rows of incenses, bottled fragrances, various precious stones and their likenesses, packages of animal skin and bones, and vials of various chemicals behind a thick glass barrier. "Why would she leave the door unlocked? Seems like she's asking for a burglary. I don't even see any cameras."

"Who in his right mind would want to rob from a spell shop?" Sholto asked. "Especially with all this nasty voodoo shit laying around. No one wants a death due scorpions."

I chuckled and shrugged. "That's a point."

"Come over here, I need your torch."

I walked toward him, standing just in front of another wooden door, a blackened glass window making up most of the top half. He was running his fingers over the doorframe, twisting the handle, trying to pry it open but also trying to be as quiet as possible. "Do you think it's locked for a reason?" I asked. "Maybe we shouldn't be breaking in."

"Give me your torch."

He took it from me, but rather than shining it through the window, he looked down at the door siding, making a satisfied sound in the back of his throat. "See, it's what I thought. Look there."

I peered closely. "Is that French?"

He nodded. "_Toujours ouvert_. That much I remember. Macie had it on her door, too. She had hers on a piece of paper, but I guess Ovleen wanted to be a bit more definitive."

"What does it mean?"

"Always open. In other words, 'if dark, enter'." He ran his fingers along the top of the doorframe, but upon finding nothing, started searching along the floor. "There has to be a key here somewhere."

"Like, a normal key?"

"Yes, one to fit the door." He leaned down to look under the doormat, but there was nothing. "John, help me look."

"You should've brought your own torch," I muttered, following him over to a nearby cabinet. We rustled through the knick-knacks neatly organized on shelves. Flowers, statues, zodiac booklets, tiny bottles filled with gently glowing liquid. A wide bookshelves to our right had multiple volumes on _Ethics of Wicca, Wicca Demystified_, some general books on mythology or ancient pagan religions. I shiver as I passed by a cold spot, glancing up to look at the air conditioner shaft. Something must've been wrong with it.

"It could be in a book, but I would hate having to search through all those," Sholto muttered, glancing toward the shelves.

"Neither would I." I heaved. "There has to be some sort of clue around here somewhere, if the key was supposed to be _found_."

He moved the torch across the length of the store, illuminating shelves, racks, and aisles of various witch-ish ornaments. The twisted shadows made me a bit nervous when I saw them in full. There was a sale on incense, evidently. The raven continued watching us, unblinking. The windows were small and heavily draped. A huge rack of charms hung along the wall just a few feet from the bird.

"Um, could it be one of those?" I asked, pointing.

"Shit," He grumbled.

We walked over, careful not to jam our feet against the corners of the aisles, our feet curiously quiet along the carpet. He shone the torch toward the rack. The charms varied from astrological symbols to nymphs and fairies, but the ones we were concerned with were the keys. Large, small, thick, thin, keys hung in strings, on bracelets, and chained to earrings. We fingered through them and they jingled like a doorbell.

"We can't try all of them," I said.

"Look for one that's different," He motioned. "Initials, colors, symbols, anything."

"We're in a witch shop," I muttered.

"Just look."

I nodded, sniffing my nose to clear it of dust. Then I sniffed again. The whole place smelled strongly of sharp incense and old books, but over here there was something else, too. I looked for an open vial or maybe a broken glass, but nothing looked open. I couldn't even pinpoint what exactly it smelled like. Weed, maybe. A trace of spice. Smoke.

I took the key in my hand and raised it to my nose. Copper. I took a strand that had three separate keys on it. Those ones didn't smell like copper, but didn't smell like smoke, either. Nickel, maybe. I put them back.

"What are you doing?" James asked.

"Smelling," I replied. "Do you smell that?"

"Smell what?"

"Smoke." I sniffed another key. "There are lots of incenses in here, no one would notice an extra scent."

He looked confused, but took his key and smelled it. "Nothing."

"Then that's not it." I picked up another strand and sniffed. "Oh."

He watched as I sniffed again. There was the smoke, but there was quite a bit of copper too. The key behind it smelled much stronger.

"This one, try this one." I handed it to him, and he trotted back toward the door.

The key slid into the lock easily, twisting and unlocking the first portion, and the second key (the less-smelling one) unlocked the actual knob. James slipped the keys into his jacket pocket and handed the torch back to me, easing the door open, and its creak echoed throughout the shop, stirring up the bird.

Now the smell was almost impossibly strong. In fact, the smoke still seemed to be hanging in the air, soaked up into the walls, draining down into the floor. A wooden stairway led to the upper flat. On either side, the lamps were cold. Spices, weed, sweat, and blood, mixed in with the cold, came down toward us and swept through the open door. Both of us could sense the danger, and Sholto drew his gun from behind his belt. The floorboards screamed beneath us.

Three tall windows faced the alley to our right, hanging open, their black lace curtains blowing with the rain-scented breeze. Here was a deep green carpet, littered with gold accents in a swirling, Middle Eastern pattern. On the walls hung paintings of animals, the hides of goats, horns, and various shelves filled with volumes upon volumes of leather-bound books. Water had prickled the floor around the foot of the windows, illuminated by the street haze, and it made me swallow hard. The rain washed away the smoke smell, but not the blood. "Stay close to me," James warned.

Distant thunder struck as we stepped toward the next doorway, lined by black fabric, and began to see the crimson dotting the floor and the walls. It was her study, evidently. An entire wall was dedicated to books with identical reed necks, marked with dates in black felt-tipped pen, their handwriting faded and scratchy. The books from a few places had been torn from their place and thrown to the floor. The opposite wall was the same way, nearly completely destroyed, pages ripped out and torn to pieces, shredded by nails and hands. It was an eerie thing to say. That window hung open, too, blowing curtains and cold humidity into the room.

"What the hell happened here?" I asked, turning the corner. I held my hand out to Sholto to stop. "Wait, James, there's a body."

I shone the torch on her and narrowed my eyes, placing my hand over my mouth and nose to keep from breathing in the smell. Execution style. Her neck was bent down, her stomach pressed into her knees, hands curled around her neck, black hair hanging down and hiding the shards of her face. I now reached for my own gun and moved toward her, squatting with my cane as support, to investigate the wound.

Sholto covered his nose and peered around toward her. "Is that Ovleen?" He asked.

"I'd assume so," I replied. The wound was gaping open, vomiting human tissue onto the floor around her. A huge pool had collected beneath her, one I tried my best to avoid. I didn't have any gloves, so I kept from touching her, but I investigated as best as I could without vomiting myself. "My guess is about twelve hours."

"Damn." He kept an eye on the doorway. "Any clues as to why?"

"Not yet." I looked closer at her hands. They were white and taut, the nails long and painted gold. There were several gold rings on the various fingers of her left hand, but her right was clean of jewelry. That surprised me, and I studied that hand. There was a bit of residue on those fingers, something black, like nail polish or ink. _Ink_.

I flashed the torch up at the desk. It was a complete wreck, all its components flung along the oak surface and across the floor. A pool of ink had soaked through several layers of paper near the center, originating from a small pot that had been broken in the chaos. That was exactly what I was looking for. I stood up again and scanned across the desk, but I didn't see any fountain pens.

"What'd you find?" Sholto asked.

"It looks like she was writing," I answered, starting to look along the floor.

"Writing? Writing what?"

"I don't know, maybe something in all this." I motioned to the discarded books along the floor.

"Do you think whoever killed her would take what she was writing?" He asked.

"There's a chance. But there's also a chance they didn't." I gritted my teeth. "Do you see any fountain pens?"

Sholto shook his head. "What's important about fountain pens?"

"There's ink on her hands, and there's a pot of ink on the desk, but her pens are gone. Maybe she wasn't writing here. Maybe she was writing somewhere else."

I moved toward the door, heading back into the open room with the leather-bound books. James followed closely behind me. There was a table near the window, and on the surface was a Mason jar filled with glittering pens, their points swaying with the pull of the curtains above them. "There." I flipped through the papers and booklets on the table, but it looked like the pages were nothing but scraps, pieces of spells and songs, and I left them be.

"Look," Sholto stepped behind me, pointing toward a photograph on the table. There was Macie, younger, dressed in a white graduation gown. A woman with long, inky black hair stood beside her, smiling. "That must be Ovleen."

"They must still be pretty close if she has her photograph displayed." I said.

"But Macie said she hadn't seen Ovleen in years," Sholto said.

"Does she write? She wrote lots of people," I asked.

He nodded. "She wrote. Maybe Ovleen kept copies of the letters."

"Maybe she was writing to Macie," I added.

I kept digging through the pages, but not one of them looked much like a letter. Sholto saw my frustration and moved toward the shelves, leafing through the books and looking for anything worth his time. I joined him, using my torch to illuminate the whole of it, pulling off book after book and glancing through. They all smelled strongly of leather and paper. I hoped that maybe Ovleen would have scented what we were looking for here, too, but I doubted it. She might've planned that someone would look for the key to her door, but I doubted her letters would be important. They would blend in.

"Do you smell anything?" Sholto asked, bending to look lower.

"No, not this time." I sniffed the air, pressing myself close to the books, but only got a good lungful of leather and wood decay. There was a faint scent of smoke, but I thought it must've been from the downstairs area, so I ignored it at first. But as I moved toward Sholto, away from the stairs, the smell got just a slight bit stronger. More to the left, the stronger it became. It was in the direction of the kitchen, and I saw a small table with a phone resting along the wall. The smell only got stronger as I stepped toward it.

Oh. I saw what the spice smell was, now. It was the incense, after all. It sat beside the phone - an old, antique one - with a black bowl and cold candle resting beside it. I let my shoulders deflate a little. There was a small phonebook resting beside the bowl, with various sticky-notes poking out from odd angles, and I picked it up to look at it. The cover nearly took my breath away. A yellow-gold M was stamped into the brown leather.

"John?" Sholto came over. "What is that?"

"Jesus Christ, I've seen this before," I said, my heart racing. "This is Jandi's book."

"Jandi?"

I handed the torch to him and flipped through, finding the gold bookmark I had seen the last time. "Look, James, look." I pointed.

His face went almost white. "What-"

"He said it was an address book." I leafed through a few more pages, twisting my brow. "But, what are all these new colors? It wasn't like this earlier. There were no place markers. It was all in black pen, not red. See that? That wasn't there."

"Maybe Ovleen was reading it," He offered. "She could've been taking notes."

"Notes on what? It's an address book!"

A creak echoed through the house, and both of us dropped to silence, our bones going warm with tension. I closed the book, tucking it below my belt as Sholto shined the torch in the doorway to the kitchen. He stepped forward, letting his neck slowly bend around the doorframe, the gun close to his chest, mine at my waist, ears prodding for noise, nerves strained tight, knuckles white.

Sharp clanging sounds pushed both of us away from the door, and Sholto turned quickly, seizing my arm and throwing me toward the stairs. "_Fuck_!"

We both raced toward the stairs, clamoring down and landing about halfway down by the time we heard the explosion, curling up against our chests, folding our hands against our ears. Skulls rattled, we fell down the rest of the stairs and pushed through the door, hearing the angry shouts and heavy footsteps rush across the upper level. Sholto fumbled for the keys in his pocket, locking the door behind us only once, and followed me toward the entrance door.

I ran full-force against the door, but it was jammed. No, not jammed. Locked. "Dammit, Sholto, we're stuck!" I shouted, grabbing the door with both hands. He pushed against it with me, but it wouldn't budge. He kicked it, and I threw my shoulder against it, but nothing would jostle it.

The men reached the other door. Angry shouts, mangled language and shrieks. Gunfire erupted, poking holes through the wood. _Shit, shit, shit, shit._ I looked around frantically for another way out, and I saw another door, marked with a large purple sign reading "No Entry", hidden behind a half-shelf of metal trinkets. Sholto and I both dodged the aisles and dove toward it, shoving it out of the way and nearly ripping apart the sign as we threw it open, dipping inside barely before we heard the opposite door give way.

We charged down the narrow hall, dusty and full of cobwebs, with nothing but our trembling torch to illuminate the path. I was breathing hard, struggling with every other foot, my cane long forgotten somewhere in the path behind me. Sholto was ahead, running quickly with his gun ahead of him, stopping just short of the end to make a sharp right turn. The men followed us into the corridor, firing off rounds at us and screaming in some sort of strange language, their footsteps driving a beat of fear into my chest, quickening my feet.

An exit sign flickered from the end of the hall, and Sholto slammed it open, waiting behind its cover for me, and I bolted down the alley opposite from the street, shouting for him. "Come on, dammit, don't stop!" He followed, barely dodging the next round of fire, his muscles going into one-hundred-percent reaction mode, catching up with me easily, racing around the corner into another alley as we heard the clanging.

With experiences like ours, it isn't as much the gunfire that brings the most terror. It's that fucking clang sound, the hiss of an active grenade, that really drives an ice-cold blade up between your ribs. I felt it barely miss me, banging against one of the trash bins and rolling against the opposite wall. I went from fully grounded to floating seamlessly through the air, my mind temporarily separate from my body, everything spinning and going bright, my senses overwhelmed by heat and light and sound, body shrieking, feeling myself slam into the brick, feeling metal and garbage pierce into my clothes, numb and dizzy, the world screeching to a stop around me.

Someone was dragging me. I recognized his rough hands. I let myself get pulled away, feeling the cold asphalt replace the fiery aftermath and welcoming it. I couldn't tell if I was breathing or not, but Sholto's sea-glass eyes cut through the gray storm-clouds, his nostrils flaring, forehead scuffed, brow furrowed.

"John!" He shouted. "We've got to _go_, John!"

I could hear the police sirens. _Greg_ was all I could think. Oh, Lestrade, Jesus Christ. But no, I knew he was right. We couldn't be here. I forced myself to stir, dragging in labored breath and washing the terror out of my veins with oxygen. The angry shouts were fading. They had heard the sirens, and they returned like rats to their sewer. I reached out and took hold of Sholto's collar, my hands trembling, aware of some sort of pain but unsure of where it was coming from. I pushed to my knees, then to my feet. Blood stained my trousers and my side, pooling in my sock, but I had no time. I had to get moving. He set his hand on my back. I had to get moving.

We slipped away, cutting between the shadows while the attention was focused on the fire, eating away the evidence, swallowing the pages and the books and the papers, mangling the corpse and suffocating the raven. Yet Macie's book remained pressed against the small of my back, marking me with its smoke and spice, dizzying me and flattening me against the ground.

* * *

It's dangerous, so dangerous, I wanna review it again.

Next update Sunday. (Pray for me.)


	20. Chapter 20

"You're going to- _Fuck_!" I wheezed, gripping a handful of Sholto's jacket with my sweaty palm. He shushed me, putting one hand on the dip of my waist and allowing the other to hover over my leg, dangerously close to the protruding shards of metal. The bleeding hadn't gone down, and the little teeth had done more and more damage to my thigh the longer I continued to use it, but the thought of removing them filled me with dread. I knew that it had to be done. But the pain was fogging my mind, shutting away the doctor portion for the less reasonable one.

Sholto remained calm, spreading his fingers wide across my stomach and keeping his eyes on my injured thigh. "These are first."

"Sh-"

"We need to get these out, John. The last thing we need is for Sherlock to come home to you with a leg full of metal."

I croaked. He was right. And after your mild threat earlier, it was even more right. But as James' fingers grazed the surface of one of the teeth, I had to bite my cheek to keep from howling. I gripped the stained bed-sheets tightly with one hand and the cuff of Sholto's jacket in the other, letting my breath out with long hisses rather than noises, squeezing my eyes shut nearly to the point of tears.

Vocalization had always been my tendency and my biggest embarrassment, as Sholto had well known, but somehow I felt as if any inkling of sound was an intimate invasion. I made myself dizzy, trying to distract myself and yet not make noise and yet keep myself still under Sholto's hands. He gripped the flat sides of a tooth and pulled up. By the time the shard was removed, my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly focus.

"Breathe, John, you're almost purple." James leaned forward, studying me. I opened my eyes a sliver, swallowing deep, rushed breaths.

"Please, just leave them," I murmured.

"Do you have any painkillers?"

"Just Sherlock's prescription, and I don't want those." I contorted again, a fresh wave of pain washing through, and I pulled against Sholto's jacket. "_Dammit_, Sholto, it fucking _hurts_."

"I'm sorry, I have to get these out. At least the bigger ones."

"Jesus _Christ_."

I stretched out my back, arching my neck against our pillows. James seemed torn, but then again, so was my leg, and that took precedence. He pressed his palm against my chest, just hard enough to keep me from folding up, and held the other above my thigh with his eye on a particularly large and jagged piece. "Alright, John, take a breath."

There was no way I could watch without passing out, so I closed my eyes tight and tugged on Sholto's jacket. He pulled as smoothly as he could manage, but it still felt as if a chainsaw were being dragged through my bone. I made a mangled cry sound, wheezing in breaths, and he stopped.

"John, stay still," He said, quietly.

I groaned, forcing myself to exhale. "Stop, _please_."

"Relax a little." He rubbed my chest, sending my lungs into spasms. "It'll be easier if you loosen up."

"I can't," I panted.

"Just try." He put his fingers around the shard, bracing himself on me before pulling up. Trying to relax only made my hands tremble even worse. I let my mouth hang open, gulping in air, hearing my own breaths echo in my ears. I was either going to be sick or black out completely. My chest was tight and my muscles felt stringy, convulsion leading to weakness in my forearms and shoulders.

The shard hung a few inches from my skin, soaked a deep red, and I let out a long, wavering sigh, untangling my fingers as Sholto dropped it into a small metallic bowl where two other shards were already waiting.

"Oh, Christ, I can't do this," I muttered, wiping the sweat and grime out of my eyes. I looked back down at my leg, with the fabric of my trousers torn to pieces, exposing the shredded flesh beneath. The wounds were oozing and bleeding into the bedspread, and I knew I would need to bind it somehow. But the pain was coming back. I could feel it from the pit of my stomach, and I laid my head down.

James scanned across my leg again. "Only a bit longer, John."

"No." I put my hand on his wrist, pushing with what miniscule amount of strength I still had. "Please. I can't."

"You've got this far, you'll be fine."

"James."

"Relax."

_"James."_

_"John."_

He pressed harder on my chest and quickly gripped a shard, pulling up without warning. I shrieked, my torso threatening to jerk forward, Sholto's hand the only thing pinning me down. I clawed at his shoulder, but it did nothing to distract him or to help me. I rolled my head back, gritting my teeth, moaning and writhing away from him. The shard was not budging, and neither was Sholto, his pressure constant a brow slowly beginning to furrow with effort.

We both nearly snapped our necks as the door flung open and there you were, your eyes almost red with rage.

"What the _hell_ are you two doing?" You asked, words sharp.

I fell back onto the bed, sucking in a breath. Sholto had let go of the shard mid-pull, and the new movement made the wounds sting. Shit, you weren't supposed to be home this early. But thank god you were. I let my eyes close again, feeling the pain vibrate throughout me, your footsteps flowing around the foot of the bed.

"He's injured," Sholto said, standing off the edge of the mattress to meet you. "I was trying to-"

"How the fuck did he get injured?" You exploded. "You were supposed to stay in the flat! Where were you!"

"Lower London," He answered.

"Doing what, exactly?"

"Looking for evidence."

"_Evidence_?"

"Sherlock."

I propped myself on my elbows, looking up at you with big eyes. You were visibly upset, and the last thing I wanted was for that anger to be directed at James. You turned to me, your eyes scanning across me before landing up near my gaze, taking a seat at my waist. "What happened, John."

"Sholto remembered something," I explained, cringing. "A friend of Macie's, who lived in London. We thought that she might've been the reason Jandi came to London in the first place."

"We found her name in the phonebook, with an address." Sholto added. "She runs a Wiccan shop and owns the flat above it."

"The store was dark, but unlocked. We found an extra key to get into the upper flat." The pain in my stomach spiked, so I laid back down. "We thought we were alone, but evidently there were a handful of bastards hunkered down in the back rooms. They were armed."

"John was grazed by grenade fire. The explosion threw lots of glass and broken metal his way."

"I can see that. How much metal were you able to extract?" You asked, moving toward my thigh. You still had your leather gloves on, so you were unhesitant to start prodding, narrowing your eyes to get a better view.

"Several pieces," James answered, showing him the bowl.

"It looks like there's still more embedded. We'll need to have this removed." You tsked, pulling your phone out of your coat. "Major Sholto, in our closet there is a large cardboard box in the far right-hand corner. In the bottom of that box is another box. Bring it to me."

You took your right glove off with your teeth and began punching in numbers. Sholto nodded to you and dipped out of sight.

After he was gone, you glanced up at me, still closed off but at least willing. "It sounded like you were having a good fuck."

I stared at you. "What?"

"You, groaning in here."

"You're a shithead!" I cawed, blushing rose red. "F-"

"This box?"

Sholto raised a black lock-box out of the closet door, and you nodded.

"Thank-you." Your phone made a muffled noise. "Yes, Molly, I need you down here at Baker Street."

"Molly?" James asked.

"Molly Hooper, she's from the hospital."

"Oh, no, it's no rush." You continued, tilting your head to pin your phone to your shoulder. "John's just had a bit of an accident. He's gotten himself pretty badly cut up and has some penetrating wounds in his leg. But if those corpses are being impatient, by all means, take your time."

"Corpses?" He looked at me.

"She works in the mortuary."

"He's phoned a _mortician_?"

"Thank-you, Molly, for being so accommodating. I'll start the job, but if you could bring some morphine with you, I would appreciate it." You switched off your phone and tossed it onto the bed past me, reaching down to unlock the box Sholto had brought. "I think now would be a good time to re-emphasize the usefulness of an emergency medical stock, Dr. Watson."

"Now is definitely not a good time," I seethed, rotating my wrist on the bedspread.

"Did you two at least find anything mildly interesting in your flirtation with the insurgents?" You asked.

"We did," Sholto replied, slowly. "There was a book in Ovleen's flat that belonged to Macie."

"A book? What's important about a book?" You discovered a scalpel, the sight of which made me flinch.

Sholto noticed it too, but refused to react. "John recognized it."

"It was the book that Jandi had brought, he showed it to us. James, go get it, I set it on the kitchen table."

He nodded, getting up and disappearing again into the next room.

"He's James now?" You murmured.

"He's always been James, asshat," I spat back.

You narrowed your eyes and poked one of the shards, making me yelp.

Sholto returned with the book, and as soon as you set eyes on him, your expression went to shock. You recognized it even faster than I had, and reached for it, examining the cover closely and then flipping through the pages, paying due attention to everything you could see. "Did it have all these markings and colors before? I thought it was mainly monotone."

"It was," I breathed. "The marks are new."

"Do you know what it could be?" Sholto asked, sitting in a chair beside the window.

"It could be a map," You answered, "Or it could be a code."

"Code?"

You fingered through the pages. "Most of this seems to be useless information. Friends, phone numbers, e-mail addresses. But then there are things that stand out." You put your thumb on one page and showed it to me. "Look at that. It's highlighted now, but the highlighting is fresh. No one would notice it usually, just a scribbled note, an absent doodle. But it's not an accident when there are so many. That's the Greek character psi. Could mean anything. Psychology. Tangential angles. But over here, also highlighted. A date, misplaced. Look at that."

"That was the year after I got out of Afghanistan," I said, looking up at you.

"There's more. Many more." You turned to the cover, and a fold of paper fell out, landing on the floor near your feet. As you bent to pick it up, you unfolded it, your face lighting up with glee. "It looks like my work is practically done. Look at that, John."

You held it in front of me. "A key?"

"A key," He flipped the page around, scanning through the entries. There were Greek letters, Afghan characters, symbols like triangles and crescents, numbers, and English characters. "It doesn't look complete, but it's a solid start. Anyone who would compose such a complex and detailed code as this definitely would have had plenty to hide, and plenty to record. Now we just need to find the manuscript that this key goes with."

"Ovleen's flat was torched," Sholto said. "The explosions must've caught something. Her library would be practically destroyed."

Your shoulders deflated like a balloon. "There's always something salvageable," You replied.

"But it came from Macie, it was Macie's book." I said. "Jandi brought it from Wales. If it were hers, wouldn't it make more sense if the key was for something from her library?"

"Like her journals," Sholto nodded.

"Journals?" You asked.

"Macie was a prolific journalist. She has hundreds of them, even from her teenage years, I believe."

You reinflated. "Then we've got to see those journals."

* * *

It was only about ten minutes before Molly arrived, her med kit in-hand, washed and ready to pick apart my leg looking for the remaining fragments of glass and plastic embedded into the muscle. You didn't want me in the hospital; you were already drawing out plans to go to Wales, and since I knew more about Macie than you did, I was a necessary accessory. A hospital trip could possibly take a few days. So you insisted that Molly do the best job she could with the supplies she had and that we would make due until we had gotten back from Wales.

You disappeared into the sitting room to work on the key and talk to Greg over the phone while Molly prepared. Sholto stayed, sitting by the window and flipping through one of the Afghanistan map booklets that you had gotten him, periodically glancing up at me and keeping an eye on our mortician. As polite as Molly tried to be, the honest fact was that she was used to working on bodies with no active pain receptors, and so it might be a bit uncomfortable for me. She kindly offered to shoot me up with pain reliever, however, which was nice.

I felt a bit like I was a living game of Operation. I was laying on the bed with my head cushioned by one of our pillows, dazed and sleepy from the morphine, but there were times when I would feel Molly's tweezers or scalpel crystal clear, and my whole body would constrict. My hands were still shaking, but I couldn't feel it well much less stop it, so I ignored it for the most part. I watched the ceiling and the wall, focusing on my breathing and trying not to drift too far.

Molly dropped another arrowhead of glass into the bowl and looked at me. I felt her hand gently brush against my forehead, but I couldn't focus on her. God, I hated morphine. It always managed to make me feel flowery, and although I could feel my other emotions rolling in my chest, nothing could break the surface.

"You alright, John? You're awfully pale," She said, studying me.

I mumbled something in response, but even I wasn't sure what it was. I was still shaking. My chest was still tight.

"I'm sorry, Major, could you go get Sherlock?" She asked. "John may need someone with him."

"Alright." He stretched up, moving slowly to get accustomed, and walked back into the sitting room. He was sore. Limping a bit. I briefly wondered if he was injured, too, and just not saying anything. After all those time finding him in the hall of the med ward after every other soldier had left, it wouldn't have been a surprise. But there was nothing I could do. I could hardly even lift my head.

He was back, now, standing over me, and I watched him, my eyes feeling full and heavy. "Sherlock said he would be fine if he slept. Can you sleep, John?"

"He's not responding much. Is he still on the depression medication? It might be interacting with the morphine."

"I think he took the panic medication, but he lost all his long-term medication in Glasgow, and he hasn't gotten another prescription yet."

"Oh, alright."

"Will he be alright?"

"Yes, he should be fine. Just a little drowsy until he sleeps off the drugs."

Another sizzle of pain snapped me out of my daze, and I suddenly heard myself whimper, my fingers twisting into the sheets, and Molly looked sad.

"Is there anything I can do to help him?" Sholto asked, turning to her.

"Well, I think it might help for you to just stay with him." She answered, dropping another shard. "If you'd like, you can try to make him more comfortable. Pillows, blankets, and such. He's shaking pretty badly, maybe some warmth will help with that."

Sholto agreed, and I felt him moving around me. Molly took a break to clean her tools and he gently moved me into a more comfortable position, with my neck and my back supported by several big pillows. He couldn't cover most of my lower body, but he draped a wool blanket over my chest and pulled my arms closer to myself. I briefly wondered where you had gone, and why he was the one left with this job. He didn't have to wait around for me, but he was there and you weren't. He brought his work in to where I was so that he would have an excuse to keep a close eye on me. Yet you made excuses to get away. It made me sick to my stomach.

"John." There he was, sitting beside me on the bed. He was leaning over me, testing the temperature of my forehead with the back of his fingers, swatting my cheeks with his thumb. "You're crying, John."

I twisted my head, catching my breath for the first time in a few minutes. I could feel the sleep, now that I was warm, and my eyes were swollen with salty fluid. The teeth of Sholto's jacket zipper bit into the side of my face, but I pressed my head into his chest anyway, my arm snaking up to his stomach. He didn't touch me for a few seconds, but his hand slowly came to rest on my shoulder, nearly swallowing it up.

"You want Sherlock, don't you?" He whispered, brushing his thumb. "I'm sorry."

I squeezed my eyes tighter. No, I didn't want Sherlock. I wanted Sherlock to get over himself.

"He knows you'll be fine. He just wants this case to be overwith. Like the rest of us."

Molly had to move me back over to work on my leg, but Sholto let me rest my head against his shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep while he continued looking through the Afghanistan leaflet. The warmth radiated out of the pages, soaking into the blanket that Sholto had now draped across himself as well, bathing us both in desert warmth. Yet my hands never stopped shaking.

You appeared at times, a shadow in the doorway, jutting your head inside to check up with Molly and shoot strange looks at Sholto. He noticed them, now. But you weren't very interested in hiding, either. Your shadow was unkind, narrow, abrupt. You disliked that he touched me, I disliked that you didn't. And then you were gone.

* * *

Review like you mean it.

Next update Thursday.


	21. Chapter 21

I hope this chapter makes you as happy as it made me writing it.

(and a lil bit angry)

Enjoy

* * *

It was morning, and we were on a train. Sholto and I had both been nervous to get back on-board after our experience in Glasgow, but Mycroft had very willingly offered to assign four of his on-hand plainclothes bodyguards to keep an eye out for us. Two of them were seated at the head of the car, and two at the rear. He also had us assigned to a near-empty coach - not first class, but still convenient - with only one other passenger besides ourselves, but even he we were still debating.

"You're sure Mycroft said four cats?" I asked, trying not to make it seem obvious that I was looking at the man.

"Four cats," You repeated.

"It sure does look like there's five cats in this bag," I said.

"Of course he isn't a cat, look at him." You scoffed, stirring your coffee. "One daughter, pregnant wife. Likes his eggs scrambled, not fried. Approximately forty, a little late to settle down. Emphasis on the _settle down_."

"You can't pick his career off him?" I asked. "Whereabouts within the last twenty-four hours?"

You sighed and snapped your neck back, only allowing yourself half a second of investigative time. "Pastry chef."

"You're bluffing," Sholto smirked.

"Dammit, Major." You let your shoulders sag. "What does his career matter if he's not a cat."

"You can't prove he's not a cat unless you prove he's a dog," I said. "He looks like he could be a cat. Cats are supposed to look like... dogs, after all."

"But cats aren't dogs. There will always be a silver zipper."

"Then find the silver zipper."

You made a face, then narrowed your eyes toward one of the men chattering near the doorway. "Look. Young man, late twenties, relatively new on the field. Keeps himself in tip-top shape, so from there, we could turn to the military, but an athletic career seems just as likely. Possibly he's just a healthy young man. His hands are large and rough, calloused around the knuckles. The hands of a boxer, but not a professional boxer. He's muscular, yes, but too thin to get far in any boxing arena. Boxing plus muscle plus lightweight leads more toward the martial arts. In fact, he's been trained in karate. If you'll look closely at his wrist, he has a tattoo of several Japanese kanji. Attracted to Japanese culture, then."

"But where's the zipper?" Sholto asked.

"Professional martial artists are characterized by both their grace and their self-control. This man has neither. Look how he sits in his seat. Leaned back, nonchalant, legs open. He's been trained in karate for years but none of his teachers could quite hammer down his fiery temperament."

"I'm starting to question Mycroft's preference of cat," I murmured.

"Don't," You assured. "I've looked through their files."

I chirped. "That's cheating, twat."

"I wasn't cheating, I didn't state any information I couldn't have gotten from one glance at him."

"Of course you would've gotten all that, you were looking for it." I turned back to the passenger in question. "You still can't find the zipper on _that_ cat."

"There is no zipper to _find_," You complained, "He's perfectly and profoundly boring."

You took a sip, and I didn't feel like arguing further. The train car rattled as it rushed past the country, humming and buzzing with energy. You sat directly across from me, with your elbow to the window, watching the hills and the two of us. Sholto was immediately to my right, and although you said nothing, we could still feel that odd tension remaining from yesterday, since you had walked in on him removing the glass. Your eyes were cold whether they were on him or on me, and I was getting tired of it.

The way you were treating him wasn't fair. He hadn't done anything but help me, help us, and yet you had this dumbass suspicious aura floating around you as heavy as humidity. I still hadn't told you anything, and I _wasn't_ going to tell you anything, not after what you said yesterday. But now that it was a matter of hiding information rather than avoiding information, it was a whole new weight on my shoulders. I was afraid that even one wrong glance, one brush of his hand against my arm, you would suddenly connect two and two. I could hardly even look at Sholto in your presence, and he could tell. Thanks to you, even the space between us was charged.

But your words were still ringing in my ears. _Physical expressions of fear._ What was I so scared of? I got out my darkest jumper, a deep shade of purple that made me look even paler and smaller than I already was, but I strategically hit it away under my brown jacket, buttoned up to the neck. I sat up straight, kept my head up, fingers tense and still, movements calculated and firm. I had to erase any evidence of the fear that you saw. I _wasn't_ scared. But I still felt hollow, my legs close together underneath our table, shoes crossed over each other. My bottle of Xanax was heavy in my pocket.

James glanced down the aisle, then back at us. "I'm going to go find the loo. I'll be back."

He stood, and I nodded to him, then turned back toward the window and braced myself for the penetrative glare you would give me as soon as he was out of sight. I silently begged for him to turn around and stay, but he disappeared behind my seat, and I heard the door close behind him. Your eyes followed him to that point, ice on his back until he was out of sight, then you fell on me.

We were quiet until I couldn't bear the scrutiny. "Don't look at me like that."

Your gaze didn't waver. "Our conversation isn't over, you know."

"Fine, he's a dog. It doesn't matter."

"Not that. You're not telling me something."

I looked up at you. My resolve shrank under your microscope, and I could feel my hands start to shake, the familiar ball in the pit of my stomach turning.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. Why don't you trust me?"

"Maybe because you're being an arse." I responded, my voice not quite as direct as I'd hoped for.

"I can help you if you tell me."

"Nothing needs helping, especially not from you."

You sat back, rolling your jaw and watching me squirm, a small sigh floating from between your lips. "How long did you two have sex."

I looked up at him. "W-"

"How long, John."

I swallowed. "I'm not telling you."

"What?"

"I'm not telling you, because you don't care. You just like knowing shit."

"Well, you're right. I do like knowing shit. I don't see why this isn't shit I should know."

"You're just going to ridicule me," I croaked.

"Do you not want me to?"

"No."

"Then I won't."

I laughed, shaking my head at you. "Somehow I find that incredibly hard to believe."

You narrowed your eyes. "It's not like you to be secretive."

"And it's _completely_ like you to be an insensitive dickhead," I growled, "Which is exactly my point."

The door opened, and in came Sholto. I could feel him on my shoulder before I could see his shadow, but he didn't help ease the ache in my chest. I was pissed off, my hands trembling above my knees. I turned toward the window to hide myself, but it didn't matter.

"So, Major," You began, a cardboard smile on your face. "Doesn't John sound pretty nice bent over a table?"

He froze, staring at you, hoping he heard you wrong. I hoped I heard you wrong. "Excuse me?"

"Or maybe you preferred him when he didn't make noise." You continued. "In the shower, on his knees. Did he start out spitting with you, too?"

"_Sherlock_!" I cawed. "I thought you said you weren't going to bother us!'

"I thought you were going to tell me what I wanted," You replied, flat.

"I'm guessing I missed something," Sholto said, sliding into his seat. He tried not to draw attention to us, but you didn't care much.

"I'm sorry, James," I said, "Sherlock is being immature."

"John is being dishonest." You responded.

"About what?" He asked, watching you. "What is he being dishonest about?"

"Your former relationship," You answered.

"What do you want to know?" He asked.

My heart dropped. I brushed his leg, out of your sight. "James, don't."

"He wants to know, John," He said.

"I want to know, John," You echoed.

I turned to glare at you. But if James wanted to have an open discussion, I couldn't stop him without revealing myself, or, possibly worse, propping myself up as an even bigger douchebag than I had already. I stared at Sholto, pleading, cementing my hands in my lap, digging my nails into my palms.

"I'll tell you anything." James said.

I held my breath.

"What was the nature of your relationship?" You asked.

"Professional, at first." He answered. "I was a captain assigned to a platoon that interacted regularly with John's med unit. We were both installed in Camp Ristol, a relatively small encampment. It fluctuated in activity, so there were extended periods of time when I was busy in active duty, but also extended periods when I oversaw the camp during a slow wave. We knew each other for about a year before we started sleeping together."

"What was the nature of your sexual relationship?"

"Convenience, you could say. We were both stretched by the stress of the field and needed something to help us unwind. We trusted each other, and didn't have to worry about encountering problems with our overheads as long as we were careful."

"Hm." You shifted. "How long?"

"Two years, off and on. Maybe two and a half."

"Off and on?"

"Sometimes we got busy. Sometimes he or I were relocated. Sometimes fucking wasn't the answer."

"Did you have a relationship that wasn't dependent on fucking?"

"Yes. We were close before we started fucking."

"We're still in public," I murmured.

"Oh, sorry." Sholto glanced toward the extra passenger, but he didn't seem to care about us. "We were close before we were sleeping together."

"And why did you stop seeing each other?"

"John got sick," He said. "He was asked to assist another camp in the hot zone, and while he was there, he got shot. An infection took him off the field, and he had to be sent back to London for medical attention. I saw him back, but I still had work to do. I couldn't stay."

You watched him. "So you never actually separated."

"Not in the formal sense, no. Of course, nothing about that relationship was very formal."

"I can tell."

Sholto shifted now. "Is that all you wanted to know?"

You shrugged, sipping again from your coffee. I shouted silent praises that James had managed to quench your thirst for information while avoiding both the more embarrassing details and the more dangerous ones. I had never felt a stronger urge to hug him. But I was going to make good use of this lull in your suspicion, and I was not going to give you any more questions to ask.

"See, that wasn't too hard." James sat back, glancing from you to me. "I'm not trying to be a disruption to the two of you. And I'm not going to try sabotaging your relationship either, Sherlock, if that's what you were worried about. John and I were a thing of the past. I'm satisfied with that."

"At least one of you believes that," You snided, almost playfully, glancing at me.

Rage shot up my throat. "H-"

"For a detective, you really don't understand people very well, do you." Sholto stated, his tone coarse.

You raised an eyebrow and motioned toward the martial artist bodyguard. "Did you not listen to me, just a few minutes ago?"

"I didn't say you don't know things about people, I said you don't _understand_ people." He continued. "John wasn't being dishonest. But you _are_ being immature."

The tension between you and Sholto snapped, sending visible sparks in all directions.

"Quite a statement from you, isn't it?" You replied, voice short.

But you weren't talking to James anymore. The man beside me was Major Sholto, the man with a square jaw and narrow eyes, his dog tags still dangling close to his chest. His shoulders were tight, arms close, eyes explicit, tone strict.

"Shape it up."

* * *

The cats left us outside the station. The weather in Swansea was guttural this morning. The earlier rain had soaked the walkway and chilled the wind, and clouds hung heavily overhead, choking out the sky. I pulled my jacket closer to myself as you went toward the street to get a cab for us. Sholto and I fell a little behind, my leg starting to bother me, but it was alright. I needed to talk to him, anyway.

"Thank you, for that," I said, stepping closer to him.

"For what?" He answered. "I don't think I helped anything much. Sherlock seems more murderous than ever."

"You didn't answer him because he was curious," I continued. "You answered them because you knew it would take the pressure off me."

He turned to look at me, a tiny grin hanging at the corner of his mouth. "Where did you get that idea?"

I smiled, knitting my eyebrows and wishing I could express my gratitude without fumbling for words. But James understood. He brushed his hand against the back of my shoulder, his fingers softly pressing against the scar tissue through my clothes.

* * *

Macie's home was a small stand-alone tucked away within dreary suburbs. It walls were pale brick, with a grey roof and shutters, its windows large and bright against the cloudy overcast. You stepped from the cab first, jogging up the steps toward her front entryway, your hawk eyes gliding over every crease while Sholto and I caught up. I glanced down the street while he looked over the yard. Nothing seemed out of place. The neighbors' dog was barking from somewhere out of sight. The kids were still in school, most adults still at work. Windchimes blew with the breeze. It was nice.

There were no signs of forced entry around the door or in the doorframe, even I could tell that much. You pawed at the knob. Locked.

"We'll have to try to find an open window," You said, "Or maybe a back-door."

"If Macie was worried about intruders, she would've locked everything up tight," I replied.

"Let me look." Sholto said, stepping up toward the door. He ran his fingers along the edge of the doorframe, starting on the right and moving down as far as his knee, then crossing over to the other side and moving up. There, not quite the height of his shoulder, sat little scratches that quite possibly could've been overlooked in a first viewing. But as he peered closer, he saw what he wanted to see.

"Is that the code?" I asked, looking past his arm.

"_Toujours ouvert_. Yes."

"What is that?" You asked.

"It's a code that Macie and some of her friends used. It was on Ovleen's doorframe, too. There's another key around here."

"It could be in the bricks," You said, starting to run your hands over the walls beside the door. "John, check the flowerpots."

"In the other place, the key was on a ring. The one that fit the door was scented."

"Scented how?"

"Spice and smoke," I replied. "The way that old building smelled, the one where we found Jandi."

"Interesting." You started massaging the bricks, your eyes flicking around.

"I won't be able to smell anything out here, though." I said. "The smell of rain is too strong."

"We'll find it with our eyes this time." Sholto said. "What about the windchime?"

You glanced up at the painted blue-and-silver chimes dangling above your head, making brief eye contact with Sholto as you righted yourself. "Perhaps."

James reached up and took the chimes off their hook, taking one of the individual tubes and looking straight into it. "There's three in this one."

"Pull them out."

He stuck two fingers into the pipe and somehow managed to nurse them out, but as he did that you looked down another tube, and found two more keys. "Shit, all the knockers are keys."

"Smell them, see if they smell odd."

Both of you immediately brought the pipes to your noses. Nothing. You picked up another pipe, and Sholto handed me the keys he had removed, smelling one of the chimes beside it. You caught a whiff of something strong, and your brow knotted.

"Oh, that's a smell."

You passed the pipe to me, and I raised it to my nose. "God, that's exactly the same."

I pulled the keys out of the chime and handed the first one to you. The door opened easily. No creaks, no alarms, no unnecessary noises at all.

You stepped inside, your feet calculated. The whole house smelled like caramel candles and cotton, the floors a very pretty yellowish hardwood, the front door opening into a large sitting room area with an island separating it from the kitchen. Down the hall were the wide French doors leading into the sunroom, and to our right was another curved hall to the bedrooms and basement.

The whole place was eerily quiet, as if too quiet. No pipes were running. No electronics buzzing. No music played. We spread out, you heading back toward Macie's room, and Sholto and I moving more toward the sitting area and the sunroom, keeping our eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. But the harder we looked, the less there was to find. Nothing here implied forced entry, nothing here implied kidnapping, nothing here implied crime. Everything implied Macie. There were pictures of the wall of herself and Jandi, herself and her family, herself and the corpse who used to be Luna Ovleen. She even had a photograph of herself and Dr. Roth, our medical overhead from Afghanistan, hanging from her wall, and I briefly wondered how she could've found such a gem.

"John, look at this," Sholto whispered, half his body in the hall. I wasn't sure why he was whispering, but I whispered back and tiptoed toward him. At least, tiptoed as much as my throbbing legs and cane would allow me. As I followed him around the corner, I felt my stomach nearly hit the floor.

Bookshelves. Walls worth of bookshelves. Huge, from floor to ceiling, crowded with books, overflowing into piles on the floors and stacks on her tables. Her library. I had heard her describe this library to me while we were stationed together. The library she dreamed of having. It filled me with nostalgia to look at it, hundreds, possibly even thousands of books on a plethora of topics. And on the wall facing the door was the beginning of the line of leather-bound notebooks, one single shelf running from the east wall to the west, their dates stamped on their necks in red ink.

I stepped toward them, running my fingers along their texture. "Amazing."

"Somehow, I thought there'd be more," Sholto mentioned.

"Maybe she keeps them somewhere else, in her bedroom, or in another library." I offered. "I think Jandi said they were in the sunroom."

Sholto nodded and moved back into the hallway while I examined the dates on the journals. It looked like the first ones were started when she was in secondary school. Even though I knew that we would have to go through them later, I felt that reading these ones would be an invasion of privacy, so I didn't take them off their shelf. Her heart was in those journals, her entire life, immortalized. They buzzed with energy as if they were sacred. I followed the line of journals farther to the right. University. Med school. Enlistment. Boot-camp. Deployment. It looked like there were quite a few dates stored up in here. Maybe these were the most of them, after all?

I flinched as the shot ripped open my ears, followed immediately by a crash. It came from the room beside me, the sunroom. Without a second thought, I raced out of the library, zipping around the corner and nearly running headlong into James, who had his gun drawn and pointed at our intruder.

She cursed and spat strands of hair out of her mouth. "Dammit, Major."

"Stay down," He growled, and she held up her empty palms.

Miranda.

* * *

The way is long but you can make it easy on me, the review we share will never keep our cold hearts from calling.

Next update Sunday.


	22. Chapter 22

"Remind us again why we should trust you after you've kidnapped our witness, followed us across the continent, and nearly gotten John blown to pieces?" You snarled, your coat swishing around your ankles. Both Miranda and I glanced up at you, with varying degrees of annoyance.

"First of all, I didn't kidnap anyone." She replied. "Jandi came willingly, he _wanted_ to go with me. The fact that he didn't feel the need to let you guys know about it doesn't make me a kidnapper. Second, I didn't follow you here. I've been here the last two days. Which also gives me a pretty good alibi for blowing John to pieces. In fact, I'm sure if you'll ask John he'll let you know that I was the reason he _wasn't_ blown to pieces. What have you done for him, lately?"

You tsked. "I'm already aware of your accomplices, but obviously John was not the one who drew the bombers to himself."

"And you're implying I was?" She snapped.

"You haven't done a very good job of proving yourself innocent."

She grunted, but I wasn't sure if it was pointed toward you or a reaction from my coils of bandage. Sholto's shot had caught her along the upper half of her arm, leaving a considerable gash, but she refused to sit still for stitches. The most that I could get her to agree to was a binding, and even with that, she writhed and pawed her arm along her thigh restlessly. Obviously she was uncomfortable with my handling her, and I suspected that it wasn't a new development. Her arm was covered in purple scars, lacerations and injection marks, from her shoulder to her wrist. Whenever I lingered for more than a few seconds over them, I would look back up to her eyes flashing venomously. I said nothing.

"I'm not interested in another fight with you, Holmes." She said, her dark eyes crossing back between Sholto, seated beside the wall, and you, standing near us. "It'll only be counterproductive for both of us."

"Why are you here?" You asked.

"The same reason you are." She said. "To find Macie."

"How-"

"I was the one who connected Jandi and the priestess. He had a bit of trouble finding her, since he didn't know London, but I did. I got them together, I saw the book. Luna was translating it for me. She hadn't managed to complete it before I had to bolt, but I had the necessary stuff, and I could figure the rest out from there. If you'll let me back over to my stack, I can show you."

"Just tell me what to grab."

She sighed, scratching the back of her neck, and motioned with her head. "I threw it toward the second stack. It was a 2008 book."

You turned, eyeing the small mountain of books she was referencing. The wall attached to the house was filled with journals that all looked incredibly similar, with ranging shades of dark leather and ink, but somehow Miranda had managed to pick out piles of ten to fifteen individual booklets which she determined more important than the rest. You plucked one off of the top, examining the spine, then flipping it open.

"It's a yellow piece of paper, near the front. Careful with it. It's very important."

"I can see that." You removed the page, your eyes grazing over the front, over the back. "This was what Ovleen's purpose was."

"When Macie left Jandi, she gave him two instructions that, above all else, he needed to follow. The first was to deliver her address-book to the priestess. The second was to find Major James Sholto and to remain with him, wherever he was."

Sholto shifted, leaning forward onto his knees. "What else do you know about Macie?" He asked.

She glanced at him, moving her jaw in a snide motion, the angle of her head almost proud. "Most everything. I would bet, more than you do. Either of you."

You closed the book, keeping the yellow page grasped firmly in your hand, and turned back to her. "Why does she matter to you? What's her value?"

"She's been helpful to me," She replied. "I'd hate to lose her utility."

"Utility?" I paused, and she turned toward me. "Why the hell would you consider Macie _useful_? She's a nurse, for Christ's sake."

"You're right, Dr. Watson." Miranda didn't smile, but her lips upturned. "That's what made her so perfect. No one would suspect an honest peacekeeper, a meek woman like her. Not one of them would look twice."

"Are you trying to say that Macie Lowdry was some sort of spy?" Sholto asked, sounding a bit stern.

"Not exactly." She said. "You both knew her. You knew how kindhearted she was, simple. She only wanted to help people, and that was all she did. She helped people. She got to know them. That's how I know her. I got stuck with an infection in an Afghan refugee camp. She was working with Red Cross at the time, and managed to get me into the med unit for treatment. I'm a junkie and a criminal, they would've never wasted the antibiotics on me except that Macie pushed me through the various windows."

"She saved your life," I murmured.

Miranda nodded. "Sometimes our factions would brush up against each other, and I would find her again. She was always the one reaching the deepest, going out into the darkest streets. I tried to warn her about the danger. There has been an influx of hostilities in Afghanistan, one that has been pouring out onto everything around it and drowning everything within. Violence is everywhere, all over the country, all over the globe. All those youths that Macie has been caring and providing for are now forming the next generation of warriors, the next generation of the drug trade, and they know her. They know her and they want her."

My whole body went cold. _Oh, Macie._ I let my hands fall away from Miranda's arm, and she leaned away, running her fingers along the fresh bandages above her elbow, then eased back down her sleeve. She stood; you eyed her, your shoulders broadening, but she only held out her hand for the page, taking it easily from between your fingers.

"The trade has countless sections and pacts and leaders, and Macie knew many of them, too many for her own good. I have no idea which one decided to stick out their necks first, but I'd bet hot shit that the answer is somewhere within these journals."

"Macie wouldn't have gone looking for those types of people, though." Sholto stated. "She couldn't have really known so much as to put herself in danger when she didn't know what she was handling."

"What do you think, then, Major?" Miranda asked, sharp. "I've spent the last two days deciphering and decoding these pissy little books, and let me tell you, these codes are not simple, and they are not always easy to find. They're interwoven, they're mixed in, they're wordplay, they're symbolism. They're inherent. Do you think that Macie was the type of person to develop such a complicated pattern without having anything to hide?"

He went quiet.

"That's what I thought, too." She squatted to examine her pile. "I was aware of how much she knew in Afghanistan, but even I was surprised by how far back the code goes. It doesn't just start with Afghanistan. It's tangled much farther, much deeper, and I'm still finding new strands."

You looked over her shoulder, then up at the shelves, still filled. "Then we ought to start digging."

"Yeah, we should." She glanced at me, then at you. "And it'll get done three times as quickly if you help me."

* * *

Seeing the shelves full of books overwhelmed me, but it also got me a little excited, motivated to start digging in. We had found the buried treasure, now all we had to do was wade through the coinage to find the final amulet. Miranda had already eliminated the outer sections that wouldn't be important, like the journals from her secondary school and university days, and narrowed down on "hot zones", most of which included the years that she was with us in Afghanistan. We decided to take various hot zones as to split up our focus on the places where we most needed it.

Miranda was already working on her most recent journals, the ones which had to do with her Red Cross work within the country, using Macie's address-book and a nib of yellow paper to mark any new codes she uncovered. You didn't need the book; after looking through it on the train, you had ninety-five percent of it memorized already, so you stayed in the same room as Miranda and bounced codes off her as you read. You focused on the time period in the end of her deployment, which also overlapped with the end of mine. Sholto chose to examine the journals closer to the beginning of her deployment, and I was the part in the middle. We shared Mianda's simplified key between us, arranged on the floor on opposite sides of Macie's library.

I felt a bit uncomfortable at first, going through the journals. I wasn't sure if I wanted to read something so close to home, I didn't know if I was prepared to learn things about people I didn't know before. What if there were things about Sholto, about Ed or Theresa, about my other friends that I would be better off being ignorant of? My stomach turned sour with the thought of it.

But as we began, I realized that I had disregarded one major component of the journals: Macie herself. Nostalgia filled me so fully when I picked up the first journal that I thought it might spill out of my ears. She had been one of the people who inspired me to keep my own journals, to write out my thoughts and how to do so. I remembered sitting with her during slow spells and just writing, bouncing thoughts off each other, laughing and joking and discussing technique. She was the reason I found such comfort in writing, and reading her journals was like looking into a mirror, glancing into the past.

She was peaceful, joyful, intelligent, wise. She kept herself clean and professional, no matter what the circumstances were, yet didn't shy away from the gruesome, like some of the other nurses did. She was religious and level-headed, with a clear conscience, a strong will, and a tame heart. She saw the best in everyone, which at times made her naive, but also made her happy, and being around here was like sitting in front of a fire. She burned brightly, her warmth radiating out from her core.

Sholto started chuckling, and I looked up at him. "What is it?" I asked, perking an eyebrow.

He smiled at me. "God, I love this woman."

"What'd you find?" I grinned, turning a page.

"I know we're not technically supposed to be reading what doesn't have to do with the case, but I couldn't resist." He said, tracing the words across the page with his finger. "_Captain Sholto demanded that he not be seen until the rest of his cadets were seen, even if they had nothing but scratches. I'm not quite sure if this made him a hero or an imbecile. Maybe neither. Possibly both_."

I hummed. "That was when she first met you, right?"

He nodded. "Must have been. She hasn't mentioned you, yet."

"We didn't know each other very well until she got transferred under Roth." I said. "I'll probably show up sometime. She mentioned me once in here."

"Did she?"

"Mm-hmm." I flipped a few pages back. "She was writing about that poker tournament we had on Christmas. _I've noticed that John drinks a little more than usual when he's getting competitive. He doesn't laugh loud, like the cadets do, but he gets a crooked smile on his face. His eyes get small and sparkle brightly. I like to see him unwind_."

Sholto watched me, his lips still upturned. "It brings back the good memories, doesn't it."

I nodded.

Per what seemed to be the usual now, you appeared, bisecting our conversation like a stone in a stream. You weren't conscerned with us necessarily; your eyes were trained onto the shelf filled with journals on the wall, your eyes flickering from the date on you book to the dates stamped on each of the spines.

"These dates overlap with the dates of the journals." You murmured, almost to no one, and pulled one off the shelf. "What is this?"

I didn't bother answering, but Sholto cleared his thoat. "Could be more writing. Poetry, letters, philosophy. She was into that stuff."

You flipped through the book, turning so you back was to me and your face to Sholto, shooting him some kind of glance that I couldn't read. But I could see the reflection in Sholto's face, his smile dissolving, eyes going cold.

"Looks like just another journal." You spun it toward him, and he caught it just a second before it would have hit him square in the forehead. I felt my jaw tighten, heat shooting into my forehead, but I said nothing. You could be an asshole if you wanted. You weren't going to be consolable until you got over yourself, anyway so I buried my nose back into the journal. I didn't see when you chucked another book my way, landing at my feet with the pages open toward the floor. "Add that to your pile."

I glared up at you. "Sherlock."

You looked at me.

I picked up the journal, brushing off the surface. "Take care of these. They're not yours, and they're important."

You tsked, flipping through the pages of your own journal as you navigated around the desk, stepping carefully to avoid the piles of books and papers. My nostrils flared, but you were out the door, and I was too tired to care about you. I ground my teeth and glanced at the binding of the journal. It was the time right around where my circle and your circle overlapped.

Sholto was watching me, less upset than piteous. I got a little annoyed, beside myself, and wished he wouldn't stare. I couldn't control my fiancé's bad attitude, no matter how much I wished I could, so the best thing I could do was ignore it. But he saw through me. "John?"

I ignored him, focusing too hard on Macie's ink handwriting, straight and proper, familliar and sharp. _The weather's been changing a bit for the colder._

"John, are you alright?" He asked, quietly.

I tilted my head, trying both to tell him that I was fine and that he shouldn't bother me. _It's been slow for the past week or two, and everyone's starting to get a bit antsy. I don't blame them. It's cabin fever, in the desert, during a war._

Sholto shuffled up, using the shelves behind him as a brace, bringing his latest journal and key page along with him. He stepped over his pile, moving toward mine, and descended beside me about a foot away, sighing as his muscles relaxed against the ground. "I really shouldn't be sitting on the floor. I feel like an old man."

"I can get you a chair," I offered. _Dr. Roth has been keeping me busy with drills and med books he brought from Bastion. I'm just glad I have much more time to write._

"I'm alright." He rubbed his thigh. "I'd might as well-"

"I know what these are," I said, suddenly. "They're not her journals. They're her thoughts, opinions, studies, ideas on personality and body language. Her essays."

"Essays?" James blinked.

"Yeah." I patted the cover. "She used to work on these with me in the med bay."

"With you?"

"Yeah. She thinks on the page. They're basically essays on various topics, she says she writes them to record the way her mind grows." I heaved, forcing myself to my feet and ignoring the pain in my leg, grabbing the crutch that I had left leaning on the shelf beside me. "She only wrote in them during slow periods, so these might have some things in them that the regular journals don't. I'll be right back, I need to let Sherlock know."

Sholto nodded, and I crutched into the sunroom, walking in to find you leaned over Miranda's shoulder to read from her journal.

You glanced at me, blank-faced. "What is it, John?"

Miranda looked up. "Did you find something?"

I held up the book. "The journals from the shelf are her essays."

"What's the difference?"

"She entered in her journals daily, recorded things about the day and small tidbits about the people she was interacting with. They were a huge novel of her life. But her essays were her pleasure writing." I patted the wall still three-quarters full of books. "The journals were written every day, whether or not anything mattered. The essays are deeper. They're topical. In a way, it's Macie deciphering her journals herself."

Miranda's ears perked up at that, and she stood, taking the journal from my hands and turning through it. "I assumed these were just some sort of writing project. The ones I flipped though all had to do with religion, or philosophy."

"They are." I leaned on the cane. "Macie was incredibly intelligent, extremely detailed. She believed that there were webs within everything, connecting all aspects of life, and she was determined to find them."

"And in trying to find them, she created them herself." You opened up the essay journal which you had taken earlier, a smile lighting your face. "Thank-you, John."

"Mm-hmm."

Miranda muttered off something, turning to sit on the floor in front of the shelf, and you soon came behind her. Both of you were on the same wavelength, jabbering in insane code that I only understood a few words of. It isolated me, and I turned back to the hallway, without the journal I had brought. I came back into the library, my brow rough with thought, and started saying something before I stopped, glancing at Sholto.

He looked lost. The change was such a contrast from his reassuring mood before that it startled me. He tried to cover it up as I came into the room, but I still saw it. "Sholto?"

"John," He said, handing me a journal. "She wasn't shy."

I poked up my eyebrow, looking down at the page. The first thing I saw was a blue triangle shape about midway through the page, alongside a number. I started reading at the paragraph it denoted, and as I crossed over the words and the syllables and the letters, my skin turned clammy.

_I worked the late shift tonight because John asked me to. Not because we had more work than usual, not because the floor needed cleaning, not because the paperwork wasn't finished, because that was all finished. John needed me to stay because I was the one who found him. He was sitting on the floor in the corner of the med supply closet, curled up against the back wall with a brown cloth cradled against his face._

_The first problem was that John Watson does not hide in closets. The second problem was that John Watson does not cry. But he had obviously been doing both, and gotten himself quite beat up in the process. I nudged him into the med bay to stitch up his eyebrow, but before he would walk into the light, he made me swear that I would never tell anyone that I'd found him there. I swore. He came._

_Of course I'd noticed the various small injuries John had racked up in the last few weeks. The only reason I had was because I hadn't known John to be careless. He was precise and measured, all the time. Not the type of person to clumsily bang against doorposts or slip in the shower. John insists that he's alright, insists that he can handle himself fine, but John Watson does not hide in closets, and John Watson does not cry._

I didn't finish the rest, because I could feel the temperature of Sholto's gaze. He looked sad, yes, but something different, too.

"That triangle is here, too, John." He lifted another journal from his pile. "_John seemed a bit more stressed than usual today. I wouldn't blame him..._ Then again, at the bottom. _He had a light dusting of a bruise around his wrist, and that made me a little curious. I asked what it was, and he said that he jammed it in a drawer_."

"A triangle like this one?" I put the books side by side, with the triangles facing each other.

"Maybe that's a part of the code." He said. "Your part."

"But I didn't see any blue triangles before," I said, thinking. "In the passage about the poker. There was no blue triangle. Did she just miss it?"

"Does it matter that both passages have references to your injuries?" He asked, quietly.

I stared at both pages, two and two suddenly coming together. "Macie saw."

He looked at me. "Saw what?"

I almost dropped my book, lowering my voice to a whisper. "Macie must've seen that something was up and gone back in her journals to figure it out. Macie realized that I was changing and wanting to find out why. Dammit, oh, goddammit."

Sholto watched me, his eyes flicking back and forth rapidly. "But she _knew_ about us."

"Not right now, she didn't." I patted the books. "This was _before_ she knew. On these dates, she was still figuring it out. The code was for herself, lining up the data, gathering the evidence. I'd bet we'll find blue triangles everywhere that she mentions something about my getting injured. We might even find some lining you up too, later on. Shit, this is bad."

"What does that mean, John?"

"It means that Sherlock can't see this." I closed the books. "Anything with a blue triangle. He can't read them. Alright?"

He watched me, carefully. "John..."

"No, Sholto." I turned straight to his face, so close that we were nearly touching. "Promise you won't let him see. He can't find out like this."

James will slowly began to bend, softening like kneaded wax. "Fine, John. But this is the last time I'm going to help you hide."

I pressed the journal against his chest. "Agreed."

* * *

Every time that I get reviews, I hear symphonies in my head.

Fuck yeah let's do this thing

Next update Thursday


	23. Chapter 23

It's that part of the story again. I won't be leaving author's notes until a bit later so that I don't distract, but I'm still reading all your reviews and enjoying them greatly. Thank you guys so much, you're all very wonderful.

If anything is confusing, let me know, I'll try to clear it up.

* * *

_It's been a busy month for all of us, with the new troops rearranging and settling into their stations. But today was a good day. The nurses' assessment went well, and Dr. Roth seems more relaxed now that everyone's been adjusted. Ed and Olivia are talking again, I saw them across the hall discussing something or other. Didn't seem too tense, so I won't worry about them. Now that the major is all healed up, I think John's starting to ease up a bit, too._

_This afternoon, I saw the two of them strolling around the outer boundary, just chatting and enjoying each other's company. It was good to see them together again, after such a long time fighting. It was only a few weeks, looking back, but here, with not much else but work to occupy us, it felt like ages. The privates wanted to start another poker tournament to officially welcome in the new soldiers, and that drew the two of them in. But John didn't play this time. He stayed back, talking with Theresa, Ed, and Roth, hovering around Sholto as if he had a gravitational pull._

_I'm not sure what it is about the two of them that keeps me so entertained, but they're not like the other pairs that appeared sporadically around the camp. I could care less about Ed's flirts, or Mary's, or Larson's odd dealings with the opposite sex. Sholto and John, though, they were something different altogether, and it wasn't the fact that they weren't heterosexual. There was a sort of innocence to them. They preferred to keep their relationship private, yet couldn't help but meet each other's eyes every so often, offering the smallest touch of the wrist or shoulder, like a shooting star._

_While the cadets whooped and whistled, I managed to get Sholto alone for a short time, to bring up the topic of John. He only said a few words, but they've rung in my ears through the rest of the evening. He said, "John is easy."_

_"Easy, how?" I asked._

_"Easy, in everything." He answered. "Easy to answer. Easy to listen. Easy to stand beside. He doesn't try to be complex, he doesn't try to be a hero. He just is. He takes what he gets and he moves forward, no hesitations, no questions asked. He doesn't need to figure people out. He sees what there is and works with it. Maybe that's what makes him such a good doctor. He heals people."_

* * *

I tried to move as nonchalantly as possible while curving up behind you, peering gently over your shoulder as you read. You flipped through pages quickly, ignoring the dates unless your eye caught their color. Violet atypically meant that something suspicious had gone on within camp, you tended to ignore those. A green hexagon marked all the dates where she traveled anywhere outside of camp. But there was no blue triangle on the symbol chart. And thank God there wasn't. There were, however, blue triangles scattered throughout the journals tying Sholto and I and injuries together, and I was going to try my hardest to keep you from catching on.

"What are you looking for, John?" You asked, making me jump.

"Oh, nothing, just... browsing," I bit my cheek. "Can I, er, see Macie's book?"

You glanced up at me, but grabbed the book from its strewn corner and handed it over. "Return it when you're done."

"I will." I quickly turned through it.

Macie had designed the layout of the address book to match up with the major periods of her life. Therefore it wasn't in alphabetical order, it was in chronological. I found my name and previous address, then, under it, my Baker Street address, scribbled in. "Watson" was underlined in blue marker. Both Sholto and Roth were listed as friends of mine, and alternate page numbers directed to their addresses. Sholto got a dark blue marker for his name (similar to mine, I noted). There was a blue triangle near my name, with "S.I." written nearby. I briefly wondered what that stood for, but since I already knew what the triangle meant, I wasn't going to waste much of my time.

"Did you find anything?" Miranda asked, coming up beside me. I glanced at her and briefly shuffled toward you, closing the book quickly. Her gold eyes investigated me about as suspiciously as I investigated her. "What are you doing, Dr. Watson?"

You looked up toward us, and I tried to cover myself. "I found a symbol that's not on the chart," I explained, "I thought maybe I could figure what it was."

"What was it?" She asked.

I stammered. "Black diamond."

"The only diamond shape I've found has been the orange," You said. "It connected her to a nurse named Betty Evans."

"A grey diamond means suspicion of deceit," Miranda said, her eyes narrowing. Her smell of thick spice and weed dragged around her feet, and I wondered how you could stand it.

I flexed my jaw. "That must be it, then."

"Glad I could help."

She didn't smile. I nodded and turned, leaving the address-book beside you on my way back into the library. Miranda followed just a few steps behind, leaning on the sunroom frame with the corners of her lips curled.

"Stay on-task, doctor." She called. "We can't waste time with sentiment."

* * *

The color marks and the shapes were the easy part of the deciphering. Within the sections detailing Macie's trips to the Afghan villages, she had felt the need to include various clues within the writing itself that kept us constantly whirring. For example, Macie always chose purposefully not to mention the weather unless it served a specific purpose. So, then, if the village was described as being dry or desert-like, it meant that she had been met with some kind of hostility or frustration. If the village was described as being rainy or wet, it meant that she was not welcomed at all, or that her help was refused. Either would be important. Both wouldn't really be noticed at first glance. Luckily, they were on the chart already.

Sholto and I were searching for the green hexagons within our allotted journals and did our best to pinpoint any worthwhile details for you and Miranda. But I couldn't help myself but split my attention. Every time a blue triangle would come up, I would get a sick feeling of dread in my stomach.

On one of the pages, I was particularly worried. A number was written on the corner of a page in Sholto's hue of blue. I asked him if he knew what it could be, but he wasn't sure. I didn't want you to see it, but I had to figure out if it was something important.

"Sherlock?" I crouched down beside you, folding up my injured leg carefully. "Do you know what this means?"

You glanced over, following the line of my finger toward the blue numbers. "It's code."

"For what?"

"An entry in another journal." You turned back.

"Well, which journal?"

"Reverse the numbers and follow the dates." You took the journal from me, and I bit my tongue. "The last number is the first, and so on. It's a date stamp, with a page number following. Find the journal with the correct date, then find the page, it should be color-coded as well." You looked closer at the number. "What importance does blue have?"

"Nothing," I answered. "I've just been seeing it a few times, I wondered what it meant. Thank-you."

"Mm-hmm." You handed the book back. "Have you or the major found anything interesting?"

"Just the same," I said. "Lots of stories, lots of new names. You?"

"There are a few recurring titles but not much beside that," Miranda said. "I'm looking over her most recent journals now."

I shifted on my weight to look at her. "Didn't you work in these places, too?"

"Yep."

"Do you recognize these names, then?"

"Some of them." She grabbed up another book. "If you run across a name that's Mazhul, I know him. He's one of the bigger boys. His name gets you places. Shabat and Eliha were my friends, they got treated by Macie in the little Khales village."

"And, evidently, you're good at poker."

I glanced back at you, and you held up the journal you had been reading. Thankfully, there was no blue triangle, but I did catch my name.

"I can see a lot of similarities between your writing and hers. Did she teach you?"

"We wrote together sometimes, yeah."

"Will I find some of your handwriting in these, too, then?"

"Oh, no. She never let me write in her journals. Not even read them." I shuffled. "The only parts I was able to hear were the ones she actually read to me. I never saw a page."

"Interesting." You glanced back down.

"Is there a hexagon on that page?" I asked.

"No, not this one. I just saw your name and thought I might stick my nose in." You smirked at the book. "I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind," I replied. "Just tell me if she's badmouthing me behind my back."

I creaked back out the door, the journal in my hand, a writhe in my chest.

* * *

In a way, James had the easy job. He got to go through and relive the introductions, both serious and laughable, and to enjoy Macie's impressions of the people around her. He tried to lighten the mood by reading some of the passages, one of which where she called me a "stick-up-the-arse", and another where she referred to Sholto as the "bachelor of captains". Every so often he would come over to my side of the room to show me something, momentarily brushing his hand against my shoulder to give me some reassurance. I guess I looked as strung out as I felt.

My section, I realized, was the bulk of what I had to worry about, and that made me feel a little better. At least you weren't combing through this. I to trudge through the rough midpoint of Macie's deployment, where stress levels were constantly on the rise, and where exhaustion was intense. Sharp stones were mixed in with long fields of nothing, and that meant there was nothing to cradle the mental onslaught. Some parts made me chuckle, sure. But the rest of it just made me tired.

There were reasons that I preferred not to talk about this time of my life. I liked to keep them to myself, buried up, so that the good parts stayed good and the bad parts stayed quiet. Their unearthing jumbled them. One page would be Macie detailing the brief karaoke of the cleaning crew as we swept up the med room, and the next would be imprinted with her thoughts on the soldier they lost that evening. Onslaught is a kind word.

But that didn't even touch on the blue triangles. I remembered that during the bad times at camp Macie kept a close eye on me, but I still wasn't prepared for her honest descriptions. I had unconsciously brushed off the bulk of it, as I soon saw. Her records were a kick to the teeth.

_John asked for a massage this evening. It had been bothering him all day, but he couldn't quite get the kink out, he told me, so I worked a while on his shoulder before going to bed. I had him lay down on one of our cots and loosen his shirt so that I could get a better look at it. There was a bruise poking up at his collar which ran down, blue and purple, toward his shoulder-blade, and it made me pause. He said to ignore it, that it didn't hurt. That was his first lie._

_He's had so many more injuries lately that it's starting to scare me. Even little cuts and bruises, things that wouldn't bother me an ounce if Ed had them, make me nervous when I see them on John. I don't think he's someone who would hurt himself, but I also don't think he's someone to sit quietly while someone is hurting him. It's just so hard for me to wrap my head around. Why would someone want to hurt John? And why is he trying to protect them?_

_I don't know why he keeps lying to me, but I don't know if I'd like to find out, either._

I swallowed and set the journal against my ankles. Dammit, Macie. James was out of the room, so I wasn't afraid to slump my shoulders back against the wall for a minute, just staring at the ceiling. _Protecting him._ Was that what I was doing? Was I protecting James? Or was I protecting you?

* * *

After another hour or so, I had to put the journals down. I was only gone a minute to get a glass of water, but you had slipped in and was now standing over my pile, picking through the books. I nearly had a heart attack. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" I asked, quickly.

You didn't look at me. "I found another symbol," You said, "It was the same blue color you found. Where was the date stamp?"

"I'm not sure, it could be in any of those." I swallowed. "What symbol was it?"

"A triangle." You answered.

"I've seen some of those, usually it's just irrelevant stuff." I set my glass down. I could feel Sholto's eyes on me, but ignored him. "It's not what we're looking for."

"Alright." You continued flipping through my journals.

I changed feet nervously. I had to figure out some way to get you off the scent, but nothing came to mind. You picked up the journal with the date stamp, and Sholto cleared his throat.

"Macie went to Khales pretty often, didn't she?"

"Yes," You said.

"Did she mention any Cemals in your journals? I see she's mentioned him here... twice, I think."

You glanced up at him. "I think so, actually. He was a priest, or something?"

"Yeah, yeah." He turned a few pages. "He had the wife who miscarried."

You put down my journal and moved over to James, leaning over to read the pages and comment on them. I moved back into my spot, shaking with relief, and quickly the moved the sought journal out of sight. You eventually left to continue working on your own section, buzzed with the new information, and I gave Sholto an appreciative glance. He returned it with his own.

* * *

_I'm starting to get very worried about John. He's not acting like himself anymore. He's quiet, disconnected from others, guarded and careful all the time, even when no one's watching. He looks tired, and he tosses and turns throughout the night, murmuring sometimes, trembling. I think the stress is getting to him. It's getting to everyone._

_Roth and I have been trying to help, but the camp morale is going down after such a long period of inconsistency. One day there'll be a battalion coming in and the med bay will be overflowing. The next, a virus will sweep through and knock out our antibiotics supply. Then, nothing. It's a tightrope, all the time, every day. The nights, too. We never know if we'll be getting a full night of sleep or if we'll be woken at four A.M. with an amputation or a handful of limb injuries. As soon as we got used to a routine, something would shake it up again, and it wasn't good for the men._

_Sholto has been waiting for overhead direction for the past week to figure out if his troops are going to stay put or move on to another camp. We really need him here, and I think he wants to be here. But he's not able to decide that right now, and where the overhead sends him, he goes. John told me that he dreads having to say good-bye to the major again. After the close call Sholto had on his last leaving, I don't blame him. But war isn't a place for relationships, no matter what the nature, and John knows that._

_Nevertheless, he's still weak. In a way, he reminds me of Richard, from Bastion. Richard had only been on the field for a year, but I got to see his last month, and it was heartbreaking. He developed severe PTSD after some of his unit friends were killed, and was raked by nightmares until his rational mind was all but stomped out. He had to be shipped back to London for psych treatment and rehabilitation. It was not the best way to start my deployment._

_John's hands have begun to shake. His voice is low, his eyes are hazy and distracted. He's struggling, and he needs help._

* * *

"John, you alright?"

I looked up. James was watching me, his book on his knee, lips drawn up flat. Night had fallen, and the room was illuminated by the ceiling lights, speckled with crystals. I nodded. The journals had been really Afghan-focused, and all the stories of the people and Macie's reactions to the people had made me a bit heartsick. I had drawn out a list of all the names of the villagers she'd mentioned, but not many of them seemed to overlap, so it felt like I was wading through a deep sea of memories with no real shore to find.

"These things are so dark put into perspective," I murmured, flipping a page. "Any of these people she's talking about could've taken her. All of them are suspects."

"Just try to distance yourself." He said. "Objectify it."

"It's not that easy, for me."

He sighed and came toward me, sitting down with his legs just dodging the books. "What is it."

I moved the book through the air, then dropped it back on my lap. "I don't know, James."

"You're going to make yourself sick if you keep up with such a depressing attitude."

"I _am_ depressed," I bit back.

He studied me, shadowed by the light. He looked more piteous than concerned, probably part of his "objectifying", but it made me mad. I didn't ask for him to poke into my thoughts. "Maybe if you focused less on hiding from Sherlock you would be able to focus more on finishing this case."

"I can't stop hiding from him. You don't know how he is." I grumbled. "He doesn't care, he isn't like me. He'll skin you alive."

"I kind-of deserve it."

"James, I'm not kidding. He'll kill you before you get a word in."

"Why?"

"Because he's jealous, and because he's overprotective, and because he's a cock."

"Is that your type, then?"

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Sholto raised his eyebrows with a little smile, as if pressing on for a joke, but I wasn't quite sure if I found it funny.

Myself. I was protecting myself. There was nothing I wanted, nothing I needed more than to keep my past separate from my present, and if you got hold of this, I could be certain that it would never be separate again. I felt tears bulging into my eyes, pressing against my chest, and although I gritted my teeth to keep it in, Sholto's smile instantly disappeared.

"I'm sorry," He said.

"This isn't just about you, James, or us," I seethed.

"Alright, I'm sorry, John." He reached over to cup my face, and until then I didn't even realize I was trembling. "I'm sorry."

"Ugh, goddammit." I curled up, and he moved his hand, still watching me, but retaining a few inches of distance. I pressed my hands to my forehead. "Don't make me panic."

"Do you need medicine?"

"No, just let me calm down."

I leaned forward to press my elbows on the floor, and Sholto moved his hand along my back, rubbing smooth circles from my shoulders to my waist. I steadied my breath, focusing on its measure, but then his hand disappeared, and I felt the shadow of another presence on my head. You lowered yourself to my level, sinking to your knees, but didn't touch me. "John?"

"I'm alright, give me a minute," I said, refraining from looking up for fear that I still had tears in my eyes.

You hummed, then turned to Sholto. "Tell me what happened."

"The journals have been bothering him," He replied. "They're a bit difficult to-"

"Tell me what happened on the night of August 7th, 2009."

He was silent. I could feel the heat from your glare even before I looked up. You had nearly burned a hole clear through him. Had I missed something? Had Miranda ratted me out? How did you have a date? Even I didn't have a date.

"Uh, I'm not sure," James answered. "Where is that date from?"

You held up a book. "Year 2009, months June through September."

Oh, God, no. That was it. You knew. You definitely knew. It was over.

Sholto straightened himself. "You tell me, then."

I was going to faint. Your face turned dark, and you stood, walking back toward James' pile with the 2009 journal held near the small of your back. James sensed your anger and stood as well, even when I grabbed his arm to tell him not to. He brushed the creases out of his shirt and stepped around my books, his shoulders set but his arms relaxed. He had been prepared for this confrontation. But I wasn't.

"Sherlock, what did you read?" I asked, my voice wavering.

"Most everything," You replied. "Although I did skim some parts. Ms. Lowdry is incredibly, sometimes gruesomely, detailed."

"I understand how you feel, Sherlock. I honestly do," Sholto said.

"Do you?" You asked, turning around. "Because I think you're incapable of it."

Your tone was terrifying. I could see the white fire in your mouth as your lips arched in disgust, hardly even able to look at Sholto without rage boiling up to your shoulders. He saw it and retreated, muscles tense, knees unbuckling. Electricity raced through the walls, and I pulled myself up, walking toward you with my shoulders bent forward.

"We'll talk, Sherlock."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Please, just leave with me. Okay?"

"No, John." Sholto said. "Let him deal with this how he wants."

You smirked at him. "That's awfully brave of you. Tell me, when you were doing those things to John, did you feel anything at all? Any shame, any sort of remorse?"

"No," He responded.

"Good. Then I won't, either."

Without hesitation, you swept forward, your gritted fingers slamming into Sholto's jaw.


	24. Chapter 24

You threw James off his balance and toppled him into the side of Macie's desk. Papers and books clamored away and I shouted, rushing toward to grab you, but you sent your fist forward again, driving your knuckles into James' cheekbones. He made no move to fight back, no attempt at defense. He only tried to keep himself upright, facing you, his nose now sprinkling with blood.

"Sherlock!" I shouted again, wrestling you. "Jesus Christ, _stop_!"

But you hardly even heard me. Your skin was almost white with rage, throwing yourself toward Sholto with a pounce, your jaw tight, my efforts not even denting your momentum. You caught James in the stomach, and although the most he offered was a controlled grunt, I could see his brow twist with the pain of keeping his own hands steady. He doubled, and you slammed your knee into his side, throwing him into the shelf, colliding with the wooden edges and knocking off several clanging pens.

Miranda appeared in the doorway, her face knotted with confusion, but she made no move to get involved as I tried to wedge myself between you and Sholto. James continued retreating, and you continued barraging, shoving me aside with the flat side of your palm. But I snagged the collar of your suit and pulled, diverting your attention long enough to let James catch his breath.

"Let me go, John, or I'll kick your ass next," You snarled, jerking yourself free.

"You're a lunatic!" I screamed, stepping in front of James again. "Don't _touch_ him."

"Did he listen to you when you told him not to touch you?"

"That has noth-"

You pulled me away from Sholto and pushed me back toward the doorway, toward Miranda, with a force that made me trip backward over the stacks of journals and papers. "Do me a favor, make sure he doesn't get any ideas."

James growled from his knee. "If you're going to be violent, fine. But keep it between us."

"Agreed," You approached him again.

I scrambled to my feet just as you threw him off his, sending him down to the floor and landing a hard kick to the thigh. He hissed, pushing away from you with his good arm, but you pressed your heel against his ribs, pinning him there as you leaned over him, venom under your tongue.

"You've the real bastard here all along, haven't you?" You seethed. "You knew that John wanted your friendship, and that he was determined to keep it, and you saw that he was needy. You took advantage of him, you _used_ him, and you _raped_ him, and you're still doing it, aren't you, _major_?"

"Sherlock, don't you dare," I cried.

"The difference is minuscule, really, because your rape was different," You continued, coming down closer to him and pinning him with your leg, your hand propped close to his face. "You wanted control. You _craved_ control. And in the face of war, where you had no control, you craved it even more. You didn't need companionship. You needed someone whose every _bone_ could be manipulated."

I tried to get toward you, but Miranda grabbed my shoulders and held me firmly against herself, watching the scene with something too close to amusement. You got closer to James' face, and I felt like I couldn't breathe, now trapped, my lungs swelled shut.

"It started out with little things, didn't it? Trapping him, pinning him, bruising him. You liked it when he was subservient to you, and John wanted to make you happy, so he allowed it. But you weren't satisfied, and you weren't happy. You kept pushing and kept bruising, and as soon as John couldn't tell you to stop, he couldn't tell you no."

"I'm ashamed of what I did," Sholto grimaced. "I know how horrible it was. I swore that I would never let myself start down that path again."

"Lovely, all is forgiven, then," You pressed down on him harder, and he released a sharp breath. I fought against Miranda, but her arms were steady.

"What do I need to do to convince you, Sherlock?" He asked, quickly.

"I want you to remember every single way you hurt John, every single fucking wound."

"I do remember."

"Not well enough." You removed your foot only to shove it down again, hitting Sholto's limb rather than his chest; you then lowered yourself further onto him until your thighs pressed against his arms. "I'd bet John does, though, whether or not he knows it. He remembers every little thing. Do I need to list them for you? The marks, the scratches, the bruises. The neck and hips. Nails along his back. Internal tearing. Eyes swollen, arms and legs sore and aching. He couldn't walk for _two days_, Sholto."

"I hurt your lover, and now you want revenge, I _understand_."

"You have no idea how much I wish I can inflict all that same pain and humiliation back onto you," You hissed, "But that would be reducing myself to your level of barbaric obscenity."

"Barbaric," He laughed, baring his teeth. "I guess we do have something in common, after all."

Your heat filled the room, and suddenly you were hitting him again, your whole shoulders heaving with your force. I shrieked and broke away from Miranda, throwing myself on your shoulders and trying to pull you away, but you had found his neck. James snapped into focus and gripped your wrists forcefully. I yanked at your shoulders, but you were dipping close to the deep end.

"You _raped_ John," You howled, gripping your hands around his throat. "You _fucked_ him and you _left_ him to _fucking rot_."

James pressed his palms against your wrists, prying them apart. My heart thundered in my ears. "You're going to kill him!"

"It's what he deserves," You shouted, but your fingers began to come undone. "I'll _slaughter_ you."

"Down, boy," Miranda said, now finally deciding to join the assault. She came behind you and slipped her arms under your shoulders, pulling you up and away from Sholto as he removed your nails from his neck. You allowed yourself to be removed, at first, but as soon as you were out of arm's reach of James you began thrashing again, kicking Sholto squarely in the stomach while throwing Miranda and yourself into one of the shelves. I stumbled back into the desk, barely dodging your fist, then went back down to make sure James was alright.

You removed Miranda's arms easily, but your anger was deterred for a few moments while you argued with her. James sputtered and coughed violently, pushing himself to his elbows as he spat out the blood from his nose. He rubbed his throat and glanced at me, but you weren't finished with him yet.

"This isn't the time or place for your pathetic romantic squabbles." Miranda said, firmly. "We've finally got-"

"You stay out of it, then." You snarked. "Major Sholto has been lying to me for long enough, and I'm sick of him."

"He's necessary to the case."

"He's not any more necessary than Jandi was necessary," You spat, "And you got rid of him fairly quickly."

"What the hell are you even mad about?" She demanded. "It's old news, Sherlock, you're being a child."

"Sholto had successfully hidden from me the fact that he is an active threat and danger to John, and that is something to be angry about."

"A threat?" I laughed, cold. "Sherlock, you've got to be kidding me. Alright, I'm sorry for not telling you. I _apologize_. Obviously my concern was misplaced. But you _don't_ need to punish James now for an offense he made back in Afghanistan, nor do you have the right to."

"It isn't just about the offense, John. Don't be an idiot." You came toward us, arms at ready.

"Then what _is_ it about, Sherlock?" James asked, now sitting up.

"You demolished John," You replied, "_Utterly_. He gave you the space and comfort and control you so desperately needed, yet you were nothing but a parasite to him, a miserable leech, sucking away his energy and health. You loved him, of course you loved him. He gave you everything you wanted, you would have been an idiot not to. But you fooled him into believing that he loved _you_, enough to let you strip him of everything he considers respectable and honest. And that, _major_, is unforgivable."

"You're bloody insane!" I shouted at you. "You're not even thinking straight!"

"I'm thinking perfectly straight."

"What now, then, hm?" James asked, now angry. "You're going to bleed me out, are you? Beat me until your hands go numb, what will that prove?"

"I don't want to beat you," You said, coming toward us, your energy sizzling, hand slipping to the small of your back. "I want to _break_ you."

The air left the room as you pointed the mouth of your gun toward him, our skin stone cold. You couldn't kill him. You would never kill him. Not in this subtext, not in this house. Yet both of us were looking directly into the eye of a pistol. Miranda rolled her eyes with her entire body and turned away, brushing her hands through her hair and refusing to acknowledge any more of the argument.

"I should have known, already." You said, shaking your head. "John has bad habits of rationalization and suppression. He doesn't deal with his problems, and they resurface in odd ways. He was shot in the shoulder and developed a limp. His anxiety only bothers him when there's nothing to be worried about, yet disappears when he's in danger. Look at him now, still as a stone, isn't that a sight."

"Sherlock, put the gun down," I croaked.

"He's shown me the signs already, but they were different from what I expected because _John_ is different. Fear, distress, resignation, it was all there, it was all visible, but he was able to _behave_ as if he wasn't a victim because he had convinced himself he _wasn't_ a victim."

"I _know_ James did to me." I argued.

"Of course you do, you're not a child. But if you really thought that Sholto had wronged you, if you actually _believed_ that he had performed a horrendous act of cruelty, you would treat him as if he had. You've practically worshiped Sholto since he's arrived here. What does that mean?"

"That he doesn't _believe_ I hurt him?" James said.

"That he doesn't believe _he's_ the victim," You corrected. "He believes _you_ are. He tends to pick out the good of people, that's obvious. He prefers not to complicate things, he prefers not to consider men naturally evil, and he enjoys a good story with a good ending that leaves all involved a little bit better. And then, you came along. The major with no family, no purpose. Your good qualities drew John in, and your bad ones kept him coming. He wanted someone he could help. You wanted someone to seize."

"That is _not_ true, Sherlock," I hissed. "We were both rational, we were both _attracted_ to each other. He wasn't trying to _control_ me."

"Oh, please, John, it's everywhere, just _look_." You shouted. "Macie, _John is easy, Sholto is stern. John is flexible, Sholto is forward. John is simple, Sholto is serious_. She has lots of colorful ways of expressing it, she was an artist, after all. She just didn't know what she was seeing."

"I let him take control because that was what he needed," I defended. "That's what people do, Sherlock, they _bend_. They do things they wouldn't normally do for the people they care about. I cared about Sholto. I didn't want to see him suffer."

"And that was what made you vulnerable," You said. "He knew you cared about him, and he knew you would trust him."

"I _chose_ to fuck him," I shouted.

"No, you didn't, John, you _chose_ to be quiet when he forced you into his bed."

I rolled my jaw. "The rape wasn't everything, Sherlock. We were together. We had a relationship. We were happy together, we enjoyed each other, and we had sex whenever the hell we wanted to because we were rational human beings who could control our own behavior."

"Not all the time, and that's all that matters."

"You're just jealous, Sherlock, that's all this is!" I was on my feet. "You can't handle the thought that at one point I wasn't yours."

"Don't be naive, John." You spat back. "You're helpless, and he's using you. You're _sick_, and he _made_ you that way."

"_You_ made me like this!" I shouted. "He hurt me, dammit, but _so did you_, and you _still are_. Put your fucking gun away."

"See, you've convinced yourself that his actions meant nothing, but _look_ at yourself, John. You've been in pain ever since he's been here, in pain every time he looks at you. Even before, those problems you had, they weren't my fault, they were _his_. The reason I can hardly touch you is because of _him_. The reason you writhe and weep every night is because of _him_. Yet you look at him and _you still love him_."

"I know how to control myself and my own feelings, unlike you," I snapped.

"Maybe your self-deception goes farther than I thought."

I rolled my jaw and stepped closer. "Maybe you're just not as clever as you thought."

You tsked. "Sometimes, John, I wish that were true."

"Put your gun down."

"I don't take orders."

"You will this time."

"Or what, John? Are you going to try to stop me? You can't. You're small, and weak, and sick. You're not strong like you were in Afghanistan, because the memories of _him_ have eaten you away like acid. You're unstable, you're defenseless, and you're gullible. I am protecting you. You'll thank me once you come to your senses."

"No, I _won't_, because I will _never_ come to my senses." Fire lit up my mouth. "You touch Sholto again, and you will not need to protect me."

You stared at me, whirring. "What?"

"You lay a _finger_ on him, and you will never see my face again, I will make damn sure of it." I hissed. "You know I'm not lying. Contrary to what you may think, I will not allow violent, vile, _barbaric_ men to stomp me underfoot. I am not a damsel in distress. I will not tolerate this. _Put your gun away_."

"He really has made you his bitch, hasn't he."

"_Fuck you_."

Cold metal teeth bit into my temple and I was stumbling, knocked off-balance by the strike. It stunned me, almost as much as it stunned you. I sank to the floor, leaning heavily to one side as the room ducked and spun, black blisters bursting open along the corners of my vision. I reached up to touch the side of my face, drawing back with pinpricks of blood. You watched me, your face completely vacant, mental gears screeching to a stop.

Sholto was on his feet, and your aim was between his shoulders. "Don't move, major."

"You've hurt John," He snarled.

"Take one step and I _will_ fire."

"Enough of this, Holmes." Miranda said, stepping toward Sholto, facing you. "Let's get moving. Tamim."

You glanced at her. "You found him?"

She nodded. "We found him. Sholto's Cemal, your Tamim, they're both connected. Think about it, you figured it out. The son of Cemal, Macie's friend. She knew him when he was younger, but she also knew that his father was a dangerous man. She helped him and his family in whatever ways she could, and in return she became acquainted with many of his sons and cousins, but they became acquainted with her, as well. He disappeared off the map for several years, but just recently he's come back, and he's seen her."

"He was in the recents?" You let the gun fall near your thigh.

"Yes, Sherlock. I remember him being mentioned by Jandi, but I hadn't made the connection between him and Cemal."

"And you know where Cemal is?"

"I know where his London faction rests."

"Then we need to get back to the city."

"As soon as possible." She glanced at me, then Sholto. "Preferably with all our heads intact."

She stepped over the mess and headed out the door without another wasted word, leaving the three of us in tense silence, your gun still resting at your leg. Sholto took a tentative step toward you, and you chose not to raise the gun, which was a good sign. Instead, you slipped it behind your back and flexed your shoulders, your fierceness now dissolved into bitterness.

"This is over." James said, sharply. "You had your free ticket for payback. Now behave like an adult."

"Strong words for the man bleeding," You replied. He narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. You were the one to take your leave, without so much as a glance in my direction, stepping over the journals and heading back into the sunroom after Miranda.

James was beside me. "John?"

"I'm alright," I said quietly, pressing my hand against my head. He gently pulled it away to inspect, but I knew there wasn't enough blood for it to be serious. It just hurt, pounding when I spoke. On the other hand, blood was dripping from Sholto's lips, and both his mouth and his brow were split. His bad arm was held tenderly against his stomach, but his eyes were strong. The only pain he betrayed was when he touched my temple, brushing my hair out of my face. I would not fold.

You were gone. You hadn't touched him.

Thank God.


	25. Chapter 25

Wow thank you guys so much for all the feedback. I love getting to hear your theories and creep on your conversations. It makes me really happy to see readers digging through the narrative because that's exactly what I'm writing it for, aha. Keep it coming. I'm looking forward to the conversations we'll be able to have after the whole story's finished.

(I'm sorry there's so much cursing. John is a soldier, though, right? Ehhhehhhehhh)

Enjoy, enjoy.

* * *

There was a strange amount of fresh trust built between Miranda and yourself, and it put me off. Not that I was jealous of your attention; in fact, it was exactly the opposite. But I didn't trust her, and I was still trying to understand why you did. Her whole person was shrouded in darkness. She spoke sharply and watched each of us suspiciously. Her intellect seemed to brush tails with yours, and she held herself like your equal, but I had to wonder if that confidence was founded or if it was a trait she'd picked up working alongside the men within the black market.

She didn't care what kind of state we left Macie's home in. She stored the address-book and two necessary journals in a close-cropped backpack and made for the door, explaining to you (and thus to the rest of us) that she could get us on a plane to London within the hour. Trains would be too slow. In fact, she reportedly knew exactly where a plane would be leaving, and so we took a cab.

There was a private airstrip tucked between the hills outside Swansea, one that looked like something Mycroft would dig up. A warehouse stored two small planes, one a private luxury jet, the other a slightly larger long-distance plane. You and I shared a brief look of alarm. Something was wrong with this.

"They're not mine, not really." Miranda said, striding inside the warehouse with a mobile phone in her hand. "We'll just be borrowing them for a while."

"Who do these belong to?" You asked.

"Wales," She replied, flatly. "Are you going to come, or are you going to tie yourself up with technicals?"

I leaned further onto my cane, rolling my jaw and looking up at the planes. Sholto glanced at me. I could tell exactly what he was thinking: we're mid-process in selling ourselves to the Devil, and we have no idea how far the deal goes. But neither of us were planning on crossing your judgment. You looked carefully at Miranda, at the jet, at the woman approaching, and resigned yourself.

Sholto and I both recognized her immediately, dressed in black and earthen tones, her hair knotted and braided into thick dreadlocks that brushed against her waist as she walked. Our vigilante from Glasgow. We tensed up, more out of surprise than fear. She seemed much less intense now, a bit softer, and approached at a relatively slow pace.

"Looks like you're right on time," She told Miranda, then turned toward me. "It's good to see you, doctor."

"I assume you remember Isatta," Miranda motioned between us.

"She never told us her name." James said, holding out his hand. "Hello, again."

"Hello, major." She looked him over, making a note of his scratches. "Did you four run into trouble on your way out?"

Miranda changed the subject. "We're headed back to London. How soon can the jet be ready?"

"Ten minutes."

"Make it five. We've got to get into the headquarters before they transport Macie again, if they haven't already."

"Alright, I'll get it started."

Isatta nodded good-bye to us and made herself busy.

"Who is that?" You asked.

"My friend. We worked together in Afghanistan for a time. She knew Macie, too, for a little while." Miranda started walking toward the plane, and we all followed suit. "She's not mine, but she was willing to have her team help me find her. You don't need to know anything else, so don't ask."

"I assume she was the woman who 'rescued' John and Sholto from the explosion in Glasgow."

"You assume correctly."

"Did she follow John there or was she in Glasgow to begin with?"

She shot you a glance. "Which would you prefer?"

We climbed the stairs into the jet, you and Miranda disappearing quickly, while Sholto and I moved up more carefully. Sholto was beginning to feel the soreness from your thrashing, so I waited for him to get inside before I ventured up. The interior was a bit plain but spacious, and I was glad about it. I think that if the thing would have been cramped I may not have made the trip, bumping elbows with you every several seconds.

There wasn't time to dress anything at Macie's house, so once we got inside the jet, Sholto sat me down near the back of the cabin and broke out the plane first-aid kit. The split on my brow was the only bloody wound I had, and it wasn't very big, but he wanted to put a butterfly bandage on it anyway. He also decided it would be a good time to redress my leg, too, since we'd be in a plane surrounded by awkward tension for the next hour, at least.

Luckily, Sholto wasn't badly injured. He'd be sore for a little while, especially on his bad side, which wasn't accustomed to motion at all much less a beating. His throat was bruised, but his neck was fine. His stomach had already started to bruise, but there were no signs of internal bleeding, and his ribs seemed intact. His face was scuffed up and his nose bore evidence of recent bleeding, and that would heal. He was lucky, extremely lucky. But he didn't look lucky. He looked frustrated.

As the jet warmed up, Isatta came back into the cabin to discuss with Miranda and you what was happening, so Sholto and I moved forward and took seats to listen. At least here we would finally get our window into what was happening, since the two of you had left us out of most of it, being in the opposite room. You drummed your fingers against the top of a small table, and Miranda sat across from you, her limbs crossed, still.

"We've determined that Macie is being held by the faction of Cemal." She said. "One of his sons, named Tamim, was recently in contact with Macie during her trip to Afghanistan. Jandi mentioned her, and the journal mentions him. Tamim was one of the young men that Macie had helped during her expeditions, although the two of them were not friends. She wrote of him before, during her deployment, but the only thing worth remembering about him was that his father owned share in the local growing community. You know what I mean."

"Yes, of course." Isatta leaned back. "Cemal has friends in London; Maratina, Bear- but does he have headquarters there?"

She nodded. "I've been there, business. I can get back, but without the proper clearance my name won't get us anywhere. We'll have to infiltrate, try to get to Macie from the inside and then push our way out."

"Did you say Maratina?" You asked, sitting forward.

Miranda looked at you. "I know you're a detective, Mr. Holmes, but I'll make it very clear that you are either with the Yard or you are with us. You're no longer necessary to me. I can drop the lot of you off and finish the job myself if I have an ounce of suspicion that you're untrustworthy."

"If you're on our side, I'm on your side." You replied. "It's just an odd coincidence."

"What is?"

"That Cemal and Maratina are connected. Scotland Yard has been taking big bites out of Maratina's realm. That's what's been holding my attention the last few months. And now John's acquaintance from Afghanistan has led us right back to where I've always been."

"Is that strange to you?"

You studied her. "Yes. Cemal and Maratina being connected is not strange. But the fact that two unrelated cases have overlapped so perfectly..."

Miranda shared a brief glance with Isatta. "Often many situations share a common source, whether that source be unimportant or critical. One conflict results in a ripple effect, leading to more conflicts and more ripples."

"I'm not sure what you're alluding to."

"There's been a lot of unrest in Afghanistan as-of late. Most likely the two of us have been dealing with those ripple waves simultaneously. The internal trouble that dragged Macie in also manifested itself to the Scotland Yard as your Maratina case."

"Thus they don't need to be intimately related for their parallel existence to be logically consistent," You echoed, folding your hands to your lips. "They would just need some sort of general common source. But what was that common source?"

"Whatever you'd prefer." She quipped. "It's not what we should be caring about."

"But what about Cemal?" I entered the conversation, and you turned toward me. "What kind of 'business' does he have? Should we really be throwing ourselves in without any sort of back-up plan, or without contacting the authorities?"

"We're not contacting anyone." Miranda stated. "Scotland Yard is not involved, not even afterward. If you have any sort of tracking devices, cell phones, GPS, it's off or staying here. That's not only to protect me, either. Rats get slaughtered. If you tell anyone about these underground hideaways, any officials, any detectives, any policemen, _anyone_, you're going to be hanging by your skin, and so is he."

"We shouldn't just charge in without our asses covered."

"We'll cover each other. No other outside forces needed."

I pursed my lips. Something felt wrong about walking into this sort of thing without Mycroft's help, or at least his knowledge. This whole business seemed to be the sort of large-scale criminalhood that was his area, not ours. I also thought about Guendolyn. I had gone to him earlier, even after Jandi had warned me not to. Had I put him in danger by doing so? We were already in past the point of no return?

"We'll get in, fast and smooth." She began. "We'll stay together. Macie's most likely being kept further within the quarters, but we're between shippings, so there shouldn't be a massive amount of guard unless there's something really ugly going around. The quarters will only hold about a hundred, tops, and not all of them are Cemal's. However, all of them are dangerous. If we do happen to get caught, let me do the talking. The supervisors will know me, and I may be able to maneuver them, but not if any of you fuck it up, so don't bother saying anything at all. Major, are you in good enough condition to run?"

He assessed himself, then nodded. "I am."

"I know you want to help Macie, but if you're going to hold us back or get yourself shot, it's best you stay behind."

"I'll keep up."

She nodded.

"Are you alright, major?" Isatta asked.

"I'm fine," He rubbed the base of his neck. "Just a little worn down. Sore."

"I can massage you if you'd like, it helps."

"I won't say no to that."

Isatta stood, motioning with her hand, and he followed her farther into the plane, where the seats were more open. I moved my cane out of the aisle to let them pass, but at first, made no motion to follow them. I wanted to hear more about the plan, more about Tamim, more about Cemal, more about the state the Macie has been in for the past week or more. But as soon as Isatta's soft professionalism was gone, your heat returned. You didn't look at me, but that was probably the point. You were drawn from Sholto to the beads in Isatta's hair, then to Miranda, then to the window. I didn't linger any longer than I had to.

* * *

As she soon told us, Isatta was originally from Liberia. Her older sister worked as a massage therapist for a living, and so she taught her many things that actually came in handy with sore arms, necks, and shoulders. Sholto sat on the floor at the foot of one of the chairs and she sat above him to get a good grip. He kept his eyes closed and grunted when she bent into particularly tender areas, but for the most part was quiet. I sank to the floor across from him on the aisle floor, both to stretch out my leg and to keep myself out of your eyesight.

I watched them intently to keep myself busy. She worked her fingers roughly and then tenderly into his muscles, her dark hands and short nails moving quickly. I noticed that she was aware of his scar tissue on the left side and paid a bit more attention to that side. The tough skin on his cheek was accented by the shadow, with all its knots and ripples, like sand dunes or frothy waves. For a moment I remembered the brief flash of heat from the grenade in the alley. He opened his eyes.

She moved more toward his shoulderblades, and he lifted his head to me. We weren't more than a few meters from Miranda and you, but your voices were bouncing around the jet, making you sound fairly loud. He kept himself quiet. "You look tired."

"I am." I looked down at my thigh, my hand subconsciously plastered over it.

"Maybe you should try to get some sleep."

"No. I'll be alright. There's too much going on to be groggy."

I trailed off. I shouldn't be talking to him. I didn't want to talk to him, not until these strange thoughts faded. But he didn't feel the same way.

"I'm sorry about what happened. I didn't think Sherlock would be quite as insensitive as he was."

"Insensitive."

"A kinder word."

I looked toward the empty back hall of the jet. The altitude was lifting, and as my ears were adjusting, my lungs tripped on themselves to keep up. My jaw felt heavy, as if weighted with lead, and my eyelids were thick as leather. Was I tired? Maybe. Actually, yes. It was the dead of night. Yesterday's sleep had been drug-induced and disappointing. I was exhausted. But it still didn't feel right. It felt like something more. It felt like grief.

Isatta finished with Sholto, and he thanked her. She recognized that we wanted a bit of time to ourselves and found an excuse to head back up toward Miranda. James stretched himself out with a little sigh, being sure that none of him was touching me.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, barely above a whisper, barely above your voice.

"There's not much to talk about." I replied, shifting. I curled my good leg against my chest.

"We both know that's a lie."

"Nothing we say is going to change what happened."

"What _did_ happen?"

"Sherlock found out and kicked your ass, just like I said he would."

"I'm fairly certain you said he would skin me alive. He didn't do that."

"He would've choked you to death if Miranda hadn't been there."

"Eh, I think I would've been alright."

"I don't think we're talking about the same situation. You sure he hasn't choked you before?"

James watched me, his eyebrows slowly knitting together. "You're avoiding it."

"Avoiding what?"

"Was Sherlock right?" He asked. "You don't believe you're a victim?"

I exhaled, rubbing my forehead with my palm. "I don't know, James. Maybe I was avoiding it for a reason."

"I don't want thoughts like that to settle."

"Excuse me?"

He paused. "What?"

"If you want to help me, I understand, James. But don't tell me what I should be thinking or shouldn't be thinking. That's not your right. That's not your business. I can think and believe anything I'd like, don't deny me that."

"But if you're believing something that's becoming detrimental to you, don't you want to get rid of it?"

"Yes. Well, I don't know, sometimes. But that's not your job."

"I'm trying to help."

"I don't need your help."

He went quiet, and I folded over.

"I'm sorry. James, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing."

"John." Sholto studied me, his palms angled on the floor. I cupped my face in my hands, refusing to pay him attention. I wasn't panicking, but I felt my chest aching, and I knew that it was the beginning of it. He rested his hand on my head, then moved it toward my shoulder. "John."

"I'm a fucking idiot for bringing you here," I gritted my teeth, tensing my fingers.

"No, you did what was right."

"I've fucked everything up."

"John."

"I can't listen to you anymore, James, don't you realize that?" I snapped my head up, and he quickly retracted his hand. "If Sherlock's right, and I really have suppressed myself past the point of being logically reasonable, I shouldn't be anywhere near you. You're dangerous. You're untrustworthy. But where does that leave me? With Sherlock? My fiancé who can barely fucking look at me?"

He frowned. "I know how difficult he's made this for you."

"You weren't exactly much help either," I croaked. "When you could've calmed him down, you egged him on. You didn't even fight back. You could've held your ground, at least. I mean, I know he's trained, but so are you, and you could've at least kept yourself off the floor."

"That would've defeated the purpose."

"What _purpose_?"

"He had to release some of his pent-up anger." He looked at me seriously. "Releasing energy _is_ a good thing."

I tsked. "Sherlock's a whole damn spring of pent-up anger."

James stared at me. "Why is that?"

"I don't know. Because he feels blindsided, or upset, or jealous. Because he wants to know everything. Because he was disappointed in what he found."

"You think he was disappointed in you?"

"I have no interest in discussing the flaws in my relationship with you."

"You need to talk to someone, at least."

I almost combusted. "No. I don't need to talk to anyone, I just need to figure it out for myself. That's it. I don't need you, or Sherlock, or fucking anyone, all I need is myself. My own thoughts. That's all that matters. How _I_ feel. But I can't even trust that now, can I? I can't even depend on myself anymore. I'm too _fucking sick_."

"I don't agree with Sherlock. You may be sick, but you're still perfectly rational."

"Sherlock is never wrong." I slumped forward. "He's never wrong."

"Fine, say he's right. What now?"

"I don't know." I pressed my palms into my eyes. "God fucking damn it, I don't know."

My hands shook, and I felt everything around me go blurry. Sholto set his hands against both my shoulders, and before I knew what was happening, he lifted me up into the seat. I blinked and looked up at him, watching as he adjusted the arms and the spine to bend it as far as it would reach. I curled my legs to my side and squirmed, resting my head against the neck, covering my face again.

He leaned over to brush my hair, leaning in close to my ear. "I'm sorry, that was 're going to be fine. I'll get you what you need."

I laid against my side, curled into a ball, letting my limbs go numb rather than slipping into a panic. My lips were dry and my throat felt raw, but Sholto brought back a water bottle and a Xanax tablet. Isatta brought a blanket from the back at his request, and he made himself comfortable in the chair across the aisle, keeping an eye on me. As he laid the blanket over me, I felt him gently brush my cheek, lulling me away from thought, but bringing it back with a sharp pain as I closed my eyes against his blurry outline.

I didn't want to sleep. I knew I would have nightmares. I knew I would shake and whimper and toss and turn. I had to keep myself under control, but now, maybe I had no control after all. If my thoughts functioned on their own, if my mind worked against me, maybe it was no use even trying. Tears sprung to my eyes at the thought. It was too painful to think about. It was too painful to consider. I was helpless. I was hopeless. Wasn't I?

* * *

You couldn't help yourself. I felt your presence hovering over me, and at one point you knelt down to my face, your fingertips centimeters from mine. But I kept my eyes closed tight so you wouldn't see the salty gloss. You had humiliated me enough for one night. I wouldn't give you the pleasure.

Sholto. "He needs to rest."

Your shadow lifted. "I know what he needs, major."

A thick silence stung the air. "Do you?"

"He needs to get out of the field. He needs to get away from the danger. The stress isn't good for him."

"You're right. The stress isn't good for him. But what he needs is someone to look out for him. Someone to comfort him."

"And you've decided that's your responsibility?"

"That's _your_ responsibility," He replied, "And you're doing a lousy job."

"Watch yourself." You bit.

"You're going to kill him if you keep this up." He said. "I don't care if you hate me. I'll be gone soon enough. But what I'm talking about has nothing to do with me."

"I'm not sure that's true."

"You know what, fine. It does have something to do with me, because in Afghanistan, _I_ was the one who knew what John needed. And I gave it to him. There were times when I took advantage of him, yes. I know how horrible I was, I have no excuse. But after I realized what I was doing to him, I forced myself to change, because I knew he needed me to change. It was that simple, it was over that quickly."

"People don't change like that."

"Look me in the face and tell me that."

Your tone went cold. "People don't change."

"They don't change unless effected by something outside themselves." He said. "That was what Macie believed. I was effected by John. I was effected by John's _need_. If it wasn't for him, I would've been that same mess of a monster that I was before. If it wasn't for me, he never would've made it out alive."

"You corrupted him. You hurt him, so much that the thought of you still haunts him."

"The thought of my _mistake_ still haunts him."

"He twists around you. He cares about you beyond logical limits, he dismisses your failures and makes light of your history, no matter how much it hurts him, no matter how deep his scars are. That's manipulation."

"That's love, Sherlock."

You were quiet. There was nothing more to say.

* * *

See, anybody could be bad to you, you need a review to blow your mind.

Next update Thursday.


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